


Show Me What I can't See

by QueenBoo



Series: A Life Extraordinary [1]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Pining, brief instances of Vince/OC's, episode add ons, mentions of illness, vague descriptions of sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Vince starts the Zooniverse as an excitable sixteen year old. Impossible promises are made, friends are met, relationships develop, adventures are had. Along the way, he just might learn a thing or two about himself.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Series: A Life Extraordinary [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745935
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	Show Me What I can't See

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a short drabble based on the one sentence prompt "You have to promise me you won't fall in love with me." and in that I found a story (albeit a long winded one) to be told about Howard, Vince, and their unique relationship. 
> 
> Full notes and Soundtrack at the end. Enjoy!

_1\. Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had  
_ _I've been with you such a long time_

It had been funny at first. 

Before the words really had a chance to sink in, it was funny. 

Not just funny; side-splittingly hilarious. Vince had started with huffed giggling, hands clutching at his stomach in an effort to stave off the sound before he descended into full-blown cackles. Tears gathered in his eyes. He couldn’t breathe around his laughter. One of his hands reached for the nearest surface, an old chipped wooden table, and used it to hold himself upright. His chest was tight with the lack of oxygen but he couldn't stop. It wasn't laughing anymore, not really. Instead it was that soundless heaving people do; the kind where something is clearly so amusing you might _actually die_ because of it. 

He looked desperately at Howard, as one does when sharing a joke with a friend. The expectation being that he would be in a similar state. That they'd both be left, barely able to stand for the humour of it all. _Isn't it hilarious, Howard, what a genius joke._ Instead, he found the man was regarding him with an expression of confusion and something else - something dangerously close to hurt. 

He stopped laughing at once. 

“Something funny, little man?” 

Vince stifles the response he _wants_ to give by biting his lip so hard he tastes copper. There’s a deep impulse to scream _Have you gone barking mad?_ Instead, he simply shakes his head because that appears to be the path of least resistance. “Nope. Nothing.” He insists, pushing himself upright again. On his feet, his legs are wobbling with the whiplash of it all. That could also be his nerves, though. "Nothing you said anyway. Just being daft." 

Howard gives a soldierly nod. “Well, consider yourself warned.” And that’s that. Palm pressed to the small of Vince's back, Howard urges him towards the door of the keeper’s hut. “Let’s go, I’m putting you on frogs.” 

For once Vince is grateful for his friend's ability to move on from a conversation. Frankly even his high tolerance for the bizarre would be tested having to decipher what just happened. Luckily his limbs move on autopilot, more than used to following Howard’s direction dumbly, and they head out into the zoo at large, business as usual. No time to dwell on the verbal roller coaster they have just ridden together. 

He doesn’t ask why on earth Howard had felt the need to deliver such a warning on his first day working at the Zoo. _“You have to promise me that you won’t fall in love with me.”_ Really. What the hell was he supposed to make of that, other than for it to be a joke?

Even then it was a bit of a weird joke. 

Well. That was just Howard all over, really. _Weird_. The man attempts logic and the end result is still utter nonsense. That’s partly why Vince likes him in the first place. 

Howard’s logic had led him to leave school at sixteen to pursue his ‘dream’ of becoming a zookeeper (alongside becoming a jazz musician, poet, actor, or a novelist… Howard had a lot of dreams). That very same brand of Moon reasoning was why three short years later, here he was, also sixteen and also abandoning school before his exams were finished. GCSE’s weren’t important, Howard had told him. 

Which was fine, in Vince’s opinion. All the great frontmen worked with animals and school certainly wasn’t helping him on his journey to stardom. All the other students had looked at him as if he were insane when he’d announced the news. They weren’t wrong, but it was a _brilliant_ kind of insanity that only he and Howard were capable of appreciating. 

On the upside, he’d be earning his own money and hanging out with his best mate all day. Plus his foster parents were quite pleased with him for demonstrating his independence, or something to that effect. He hadn’t listened much past the initial gushing praise. 

And on the downside, apparently Howard thinks it puts him at risk of suddenly falling for his best friend? 

Weird. 

Though, it wasn’t completely off brand for Howard; making outrageous claims that is. He’d throw around statements with enough sincerity that Vince just couldn’t find it in himself to doubt their truthfulness. After all, Howard was the smart one in this duo - no one was disputing that. His peppering of ‘facts’ into their everyday conversation had oft shaped how a young Vince viewed the world. Whether they were correct or not did not factor into it. 

It means he isn’t entirely sure if he’s supposed to take this warning seriously or if it was just another one of those wacky things that Howard said (and believed) but the rest of the population found odd. 

_“You have to promise me that you won’t fall in love with me.”_

Promise easily kept. 

Howard was so far from his type. The opposite end of the spectrum to his type. 

Which brings him back to his initial conclusion; it was just a bit of a shit joke from his socially dense friend. His _best_ friend. 

More than anything, Vince expected it was probably a way to lighten the mood a little. An attempt at easing the gentle trembling that’s wracking his thin frame. While he wouldn’t openly admit being nervous, Howard has more than likely noticed and was trying to help. That’s all it was. 

No way is he ever gonna fall in love with that tall northern jazz freak. 

_2\. Ransom notes keep falling from your mouth  
_ _Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cutouts  
_ _Speak no feeling, no, I don't believe you_

Vince has never been happier to have followed Howard on one of his whims. 

Working in a zoo might not have been an intended stop off on his journey to fame and fortune, but as a modern day Mowgli it does rather make sense as a career choice for him. A week in his new role and he already feels rather at home. 

The fact all the animals like him a lot better than Howard (and frequently tell him so) definitely helps with the settling in process. 

_Howard_ helps with the settling in process quite a lot too. Manages to find the sweet spot in between the metaphorical deep end and the kiddie pool to throw him into; that turns out to be in amphibians. It involved a gang of pretty dismissive Bullfrogs and an overly friendly Toad but he’d made it work, managed to get them on side after just two days. Vince had always been pretty good at being a people (animal) pleaser. 

Even one of the other keepers, Graham, had said hiring him was the best decision the Zoo has made in ages. He took that compliment, being fueled by them as he is, and made sure to mention it _at least_ twice a day to Howard. 

Leroy decides to drop by for a visit one day when he’s enjoying a rare Howard free lunch break, as well. Vince imagines the man is job hunting, he never seems to stick at a career for long, but that doesn't dissuade his enthusiasm for seeing his number two best friend. Especially given that the other boy just comes through the door to the keepers hut like he was invited. 

He’d always had a talent for owning any room he walks into, had Leroy - like Vince, he radiated an energy that meant he was rarely denied anything. Many might wonder how Howard ended up with _two_ cool friends (Vince often does) but there has always been the distinct impression that Howard and Leroy’s relationship survived through Vince’s existence alone and nothing else. Like he was what they had in common. 

That, and Leroy wasn’t completely _adverse_ to jazz - the freak. 

“Alright, Leroy?” He greets easily. 

“Eh, could be better.” He barely casts a glance around before sliding onto the sofa beside Vince and peering over his shoulder at the book Howard gave him to read. _Salamanders and You: The Cute Behind the Cold-Blooded_ was surely thrilling, but inside that he had a copy of _Cheekbone_ open. Leroy smirks proudly at him. “How’s life as a Zookeeper?” 

“Brilliant.” He closes his magazine inside the book and sets both aside. “It’s an adventure everyday. You should hear what happened with the Newts,” 

And that’s how he ends up regaling the tale of the Newt incident. 

People always tell him what a natural storyteller he is. It’s a talent borne from an unusual childhood, he supposes. Most kids had Saturday morning cartoons, Vince had a Leopard for a babysitter and vindictive Hyena twins as playmates. Telling stories was what they did. 

It’s no different now. He takes his time laying the dramatic foundations of the situation, explains that the zoo is home to a number of Newt breeding pairs. Perhaps he exaggerates the rarity of the species, but Leroy's big brown eyes are wide and staring at him. Hooked on every word.

Then the twist, how he _single handedly_ ruined one of those breeding pairs with all his shaking (it wasn’t his fault, of course, he was just nervous). Leroy gasps, _"You didn't._ " his mouth hanging open in shock. Vince has him eating out of the palm of his hand. 

He nods gravely. Teeth caught on his lower lip and eyebrows quirked in what he _knows_ is a suitably remorseful expression. Pause for effect, let his audience shift to the edge of their seat. Dangle the rest of the story in front of their nose. 

“Well, what happened?” Leroy asks, impatient. 

They call him the juicy dangler. 

In his defence he truly hadn’t even known what _had_ happened until Howard stepped in. _“Never tremble with a Newt, you’ll change it’s sex.”_

He might play up his friend a _little_ in his retelling. Sets him up in the role of hero without a second thought. 

Graham had been furious when he found out. The man had gone red in the face (Vince didn’t know real people even did that) and Howard, unphased, scooped the newly female Newt into his own hands and gently ordered Vince to tuck his still trembling digits into his pockets. By the time the beetroot keeper had advanced on them, it was Howard that appeared to hold the blame. 

And blame him Graham had done. 

He stood there being lectured ( _"Members of the public shouldn’t be handling the animals, Sir.”_ ) for forty minutes; other than occasionally trying to remind the forgetful keeper that he _does actually work here,_ he didn’t say a word to correct him. 

The funniest part is coming up, where Graham’s electrical baton comes into play and suitably twats the pair of them, when he’s cut off by his friend. 

“You’ve got Khaki Fever, you have.” 

Pausing his story, he lets those words roll around in his mind tank for a little while. It doesn’t help though. Leroy might have grown a second head for all the sense he’s currently making. 

“What you on about?” He asks eventually; fearing the answer. 

Helpfully, Leroy just repeats the same thing, “Khaki Fever. You’ve come down with it.” 

In his struggle to understand, the first thing that comes over him is of course, concern. Fevers were never good were they? 

He spends a very real moment wondering whether he will lose his hair. Closely following that is whether or not he’s contagious. Should he tell Howard? How long does he have left to live? How the hell was he going to explain to his foster parents that he’d caught some wacky fever from an animal and was probably going to die? God he had better pick out his burial outfit, otherwise, who knows what they’d dress him in. 

The fear doesn’t last long. Leroy is laughing. “You should have listened to Howard. You’re going to fall in love with him and I’m going to exist as some cringey third wheel.” 

Vince sputters. He makes several attempts at forming words but they all seem to decide that this is a suicide mission and abandon their posts; so what’s left is a bunch of inconsequential noises. It only serves to make Leroy laugh that little bit harder. 

“Why do people keep saying that?” Is what his traitorous mouth settles on.

“I’m no expert,” This is accurate, Leroy is definitely no expert on _anything._ “But if people keep saying it, there’s gotta be a reason.” 

At this point, even the sputtering has given up on him. All sounds have thrown their hands up in annoyance and stormed out of his brain office. He just opens his mouth and lets it hang there in utter disbelief. 

Vince is very rarely in disbelief, there’s not a lot in the world he (the literal feral child) won’t believe. This, he doesn’t believe. 

“Look, I’ve gotta go see a bloke about a slush puppy. I’ll see you around.” Leroy is moving to leave but Vince is faster. He shoots to his feet, wedges himself against the door of the keeper’s hut, and _pouts_. 

“You can’t just leave after saying that, you berk.” He frowns up at him from under his fringe. 

“Why not?” 

“Well… What is Khaki Fever anyway?” 

Leroy carelessly lifts one shoulder in reply. He puts his hands on Vince’s upper arms and moves him out of his way like he was made of papier mache. 

Just before he ducks out of the door he calls, “Ask Howard.” 

_3\. You say that you're no good for me  
_ _'Cause I'm always tugging at your sleeve_

Who ever would have guessed that being a zookeeper is actually pretty busy work. Trivial matters like deciphering Khaki Fever and asking Howard about his now weeks old love comment end up on the back burner in favour of the more important things they have to be doing. 

Like putting bras on the Chimps. One of the many obscure tasks Vince is slowly coming to expect in his day to day schedule as a ‘Keeper in Training’. 

Surprising no one, Howard has placed himself firmly in the role of mentor. Tells everyone that will listen (which isn’t that many) that Vince is his apprentice. 

For now, he decides to allow it, if only because it’s _technically_ correct. 

And Howard takes his job deadly seriously. Making a good zookeeper out of Vince is a mission he isn’t willing to fail. The fact he insists on guiding him through his daily tasks is helpful if not _slightly_ annoying at times. 

He could be wrong, but he’s fairly sure after you’ve been shown how to distribute the morning seed _once_ then you’ve got it down for the rest of your career. 

In other ways though, it is quite nice. Nice for Howard, at least, who has always fancied himself something of a leader. Naturally he’s making the most of this exercise in dream fulfillment, and Vince will admit it’s pretty great how pleased he looks every time the opportunity to flex his somewhat extensive knowledge of the job comes up. 

He’s only a few years younger than Howard and yet he finds himself looking up to him (not that he’d ever admit that out loud). 

The time under his belt clearly pays off. Howard was trained by the previous owner (which means he must be a _little bit_ good) before Vince was around. That coupled with his intense dedication to being a teacher of high quality means he never gets tired of Vince and his questions. He thrives on it, actually. 

And there are plenty of questions. 

_What’s that animal called, Howard? Do you think the Parrots would like Bowie? Howard, why is the Jungle Room closed? Are we allowed to feed the Koala’s Quavers?_

It seems hardly any time at all before he’s been employed for a whole month. They’re getting into the swing of working together pretty well. Vince has come to expect the lectures, and he’s mastered the ability to pretend he isn’t hanging off every word. In turn, whenever he bounces up to Howard’s shoulder, the other man is preemptively informing him that _No, Vince, you can’t braid the Lions mane_ or _Y_ _es, I’m certain that the Water Buffalo aren’t Electro fans._

He’s learning, and yet it feels like nothing at all is changing. Not really. 

Prepping four different types of Primate food is something he can probably do with his eyes closed now, but he'll still hold his breath as his friend checks the work and inevitably praises him for doing it right. 

An inherently curious nature means there’s still questions to be asked. A lot of the time he does genuinely want to know things; but the warm feeling that pools in the pit of his stomach every time Howard looks at him with his humble smile and says _“Well Vince,”_ before launching into a long winded explanation is also a pretty vicious motivator. 

Vince knows people don’t think he is all that clever, but he’s sure even Howard has figured out that half of the questions he asks these days are ones he already knows the answers to. 

_Is that what Leroy meant? Khaki Fever._

That thought is still there. Weeks later and more important things to focus on haven’t made any difference to the confusion he feels every time he remembers Leroy’s words. 

It’s a little bit like having a song stuck in your head. Even when it’s not there, it’s still _there._ Just waiting for your mind to be empty enough (and that is a frequent occurrence for Vince Noir, he must admit) for it to take over once again. It circles endlessly whenever he finds a spare moment. The second his brain starts idling; on their tea breaks, whenever Howard has him shoveling dung, the one time he snuck away for a little lie down in the Chameleon Boudoir. 

What he thinks he has figured out in all of this is that Leroy is under the impression he’s going to fall in love with Howard. Like it’s already decided and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it; least of all Vince. Granted, he has yet to decipher the exact definition of this dumb fever, but it is clearly linked in some way to what Howard said on his first day.

_“You have to promise me that you won’t fall in love with me.”_

The second thing he is fairly certain of is that if the other keeper _hadn’t_ been joking that day… Then he is also of the belief that Vince is on a path of devotion and the final destination is one Howard Moon. 

That’s two people. Two of his _friends._

It’s annoying that they believe this, sure, and certainly embarrassing to think that he is projecting something out into the world that is leading people to this common conclusion. 

Mostly, though, his biggest concern is understanding where any of this is coming from on Howard's part. 

Thing is, there’s always been jokes. Little comments from people around them (and especially from Leroy) ever since they had met. _Howard Moon and his ugly girlfriend._ It never bothered him before - you didn’t grow up styling yourself the way Vince did without growing a thick skin - because it always appeared to be the two of them against the others. Partners in crime. In it together. Yin and Yang- you get the picture. 

So it was okay, in a way, when other people said it, because _they_ knew the truth of it. 

They knew exactly where they stood with each other. They understood where the boundaries lay without actually having to talk about it in any explicit terms. No definition nor explanation needed, their relationship was just how it was regardless of any outsider speculation. Howard was always insistent that if you looked too deep into something then it would lose all meaning. Fall apart like wet bread. 

So they just didn't look into it. 

Until now. All of a sudden Howard himself was saying things like that, whether serious or joking- and that more than anything was a sticking point. 

What did it all mean? 

Resolving to take Leroy’s advice, Vince decides to do exactly what he does every time he doesn’t understand something; he’s going to ask Howard. Eventually. As soon as he gets a chance. 

Zookeepers are busy people. 

Busy enough that it's no surprise when Howard seeks him out to inform him he has been assigned his first ever night watch. A perfectly good reason to stop thinking about it all for a few hours, if he’s honest. 

Vince doesn’t stop to wonder why they are putting someone so young on an overnight shift; this is hardly a typical employer and he’s fairly sure that Howard would have pulled some strings with the manager to make it happen, which is more than okay by him. 

He finds the whole thing incredibly exciting, a fact Howard is quick to try and reign in. “This is serious business, Vince. We have a lot of responsibility on our shoulders.” He tells him sternly- It does exactly _nothing_ to stop Vince treating it less than seriously. 

In his defence, as Howard explains the night it turns out their only real responsibility is to do a lap of the place after hours, herd some animals indoors, and make sure nothing weird is going on. Easy peasy. 

Besides, it’s not the work part that has him excited. It’s more about the bit that comes after. 

Sleepover in the keepers hut. 

On the day, Vince arrives with a sleeping bag under one arm and a backpack stuffed full of magazines over his shoulder. Howard begins to roll his eyes heavenward but is caught short at the sight of a bag of sweets as big as his own head; currently cradled in Vince's free arm like a newborn baby. 

“That’s what you brought?” He seems appalled by the mere idea of it. “That’s not real food.” 

“‘Course it is.” To prove his point he drops the paper bag with a _thud_ on the table. “See, real enough to be heavy.” 

“I’ve no idea how you survive eating the way you do.” 

No retort comes to him quick enough, and so Vince simply settles for sticking his tongue out at his friend. It does the job of conveying his feelings well enough and earns him a laugh in the process. 

That night was going to be absolutely genius.

And he wasn’t going to think about falling in love with Howard _once_. 

_4\. Imagining lines, shatter and shimmer  
_ _I get to you, to ask you a question  
_ _I get to you, to find out for certain_

He assumed he had accounted for everything when he plotted their after dark adventure. He hadn't. He completely failed to take into account in how much time to kill there was going to be before they got started. Time enough for his brain to stew itself in all his yet unanswered questions despite him actively trying not to think about it. 

As it turns out, even in a brain like Vince’s - which is a lot more like a frantic sorting office; a lone employee grasps at snatches of conversation, melodies, fractured imagery, colours, and whatever other nonsense finds its in there, and attempts to make sense of it all - trying _not_ to think about something almost always actively leads to thinking about it. 

Bad enough as it was alone, apparently worse when in the presence of Howard himself.

And there was a _whole lot_ of time to be alone in the presence of Howard. 

Their shift didn’t technically start until after the zoo closed. No problem for Howard who was in the process of reading a book thicker than most trees. Vince however, spent this time casting sideways glances at his friend and begging his brain office to throw out _all_ documentation relating to this conundrum. 

He could just ask, he supposes. It wasn’t like Howard could avoid answering him. After all, they were literally scheduled to be together for the rest of the night. 

But if it got awkward - they were literally scheduled to be together for the rest of the night. 

Thankfully there isn’t the chance. In his thoughtfulness his body had begun to fidget it’s way to distraction. Leg bouncing, it brushes against Howard’s own with enough frequency to annoy him into action. 

The heavy book is snapped shut and Vince is tugged to his feet with a large hand on his elbow. “Come on Jiggly Stevens, we’re going to start early.” 

A misguided sense of relief washes over him, almost certain that once work starts his limited brain capacity will be suitably distracted. He, of course, could not have been more wrong. It certainly doesn’t help that Howard insists on explaining _every little thing_ as they go along. And he didn’t think there was much to be said about the varying types of locking mechanism but he’s treated to a lecture about it outside the Lion enclosure (which apparently boasts a relatively subpar lock considering it’s all that stands between a Class One animal and the general public). It almost doubles the time that every stop takes, which would normally be fine. Listening to a lecture was a necessary evil if it meant hearing Howard’s low Northern tones brimming with confidence - but tonight it’s a struggle to really take in anything he’s saying. 

Vince’s internal monologue is loud at the best of times (and sometimes louder when any animals in the vicinity get involved) but tonight it is positively screeching. 

Another pause at the Moonlight World; proper procedure for how to lock up is demonstrated in excruciating detail. Howard may as well be talking to thin air, for all it’s worth. Vince is a bit more preoccupied with how pretty it all is (Moonlight does tend to do that, he finds). It even manages to make _Howard_ look broody and mysterious in it’s shadowy depths. 

The thought he’s been avoiding does cross his mind then. Suddenly and screamingly loud. Whether this is the kind of quasi romantic setting that makes Howard think any new hires are doomed to fall in love with him. 

And look, if there was anything he was certain of it was that he does _not_ fancy Howard, not in the slightest… but the moonlight does do wonders for his bone structure. 

“Are you listening to me?” 

Caught staring (nice one), Vince can only blink at his friend and give a vague attempt at a nod. 

“Liar.” Luckily Howard doesn’t seem annoyed. Rather, amused. “Should I bother repeating any of it?” 

Briefly he considers agreeing, just to humour the dormant part of his friend that gets off on being the knowledgeable one. But now the inside of his head sounds like a warning klaxon from being caught out; he very much doubts there's any chance of him listening. 

He grasps for an excuse instead. “Better not. Bats.” To further his point he gestures feebly at the ceiling where in the dark, the sound of the winged animals flitting about can be heard. 

As expected, his white lie pulls a look of sympathy from Howard. “Never thought bats to be that chatty.” 

“You’ve no idea.” 

Following that, Howard locks up the rest of the moonlight world with an impressive level of efficiency and herds Vince out into the cool night air once more. “Next one should be quieter for you.” He promises easily. 

Vince doubts that very much. 

Walking to the Monkey Salon, neither of them says a word. Vince uses this silence to punish himself with hypothetical renditions of what might have happened had he told the truth about his short attention span this evening. 

_“I wasn’t listening because I was busy looking at you in this light- it’s good by the way, really works in your favour- and trying to work out if this is what you warned me about on that very first day.”_

White lie was probably the more responsible course of action. 

Though coming to terms with that does nothing to stop the stab of regret he feels when he realises Howard is peering at him from the corner of his tiny brown eyes; pinched as they are in concern. 

Even _he_ can’t remember the last time he was this quiet but it seems a bit late to break the silence now. 

At their next destination it becomes apparent that karma is out to get him in the form of some Capuchin's gone rogue. Vince's job becomes persuading them into bed, given that he’s the one with the talent for talking to them. 

Now, small monkeys are one of the few species he almost always gets on with regardless, but these ones? They’re taking liberties, the lot of them. No sooner than Vince has convinced one indoors another two have scurried up on his (but not Howard’s - funny that) shoulders begging and pleading to stay up longer. 

He finds himself channeling the energy of a stressed parent; carrying two of the young buggers (one in each arm) past Howard. It’s only then the realisation hits that the older keeper is not only _not helping_ but is biting back a smile at Vince’s efforts as well. He glares at him for good measure. “Having fun there?” 

“They’re not usually like this!” Howard says in response to the allegation. "You must bring it out in them." 

“Probably ‘cause they scarper inside once they see you coming.” He shoots back; hopes his smirk gives away his playful intent. “Bore ‘em all into bed you do, you great northern berk.” 

“How dare you, sir.” He admonishes, eyes glinting with mischief. “The Moon’s are all fascinating characters. We don’t _bore_ anyone.” 

Without help, Vince wrestles the last of the young Primates into their beds and sets about bolting it for the night. “You sure?” He tosses over his shoulder. “Cause I’ve met most of your family, and they’re about as exciting as a jazz concert in a library.” 

Howard rolls his eyes, but makes no attempt at denying it. In hindsight a jazz concert in a library was probably a _party_ for Howard. 

The older keeper sidles up to his shoulder with the intent of double checking Vince’s work (while Vince pretends he isn’t desperately seeking the approval) and once he has deemed it satisfactory with a sharp nod, he directs them on their way with a tilt of his head. “Come on, little man.”

His shoulders sag with released tension. Talking to animals was a gift right up until you spend forty minutes with eight of them screeching directly into your brain tank. Then it’s a bit more of an annoyance. 

He’s got an absolute blinder. 

Howard continues with his sneaky looks as they move to their next stop. Conversation doesn’t come to them still, but Vince does notice that the older keeper is setting their pace a little quicker than before. 

As the sun sets around them the beams of their respective torches become more pronounced; Vince's own tends to stray towards the floor, while Howard’s remains pointing steadily ahead. It moves with practiced professionalism, dutifully sweeping side to side like he actually expects to find some neerdowell hiding round any corner. 

It begs the question what Howard would do if he actually _found_ the kind of maniac that would actively break into a zoo to skulk around in the dark. Vince has known him most of his life and he is fairly certain Howard’s default setting during confrontation is to run away. 

A question comes to him. “Howard, who usually does Night Watch?" 

"Me." 

"What, on your own?"

Howard frowns at him. It’s a look that Vince understands to mean he really doesn't know what Vince is getting at. "Yeah. On my own."

That makes Vince inexplicably sad; the image of Howard shuffling about the zoo after hours. Vince, at least, has the whispers of the animals around them as a kind of faux company. Howard would have only the wind. 

This whole expedition was quite easily a one person job, but he’s starting to understand why he might have been brought along. 

Self professed lone wolf Howard wasn't actually as happy alone as he liked to pretend, and he never has been. He has a tendency to seek out company even when he doesn’t realise he’s doing it; on more than one occasion Vince has found himself involved in something he has no interest in for the pure and simple reason that Howard didn't like to be on his own. He wouldn't be surprised if getting offered a job at the zoo was just one big solution to his friend's problem with solitude. His pride usually acts as metaphorical blinkers to the reality of the situation, but it was clear as day to Vince. Howard hates being isolated. 

Arguably, it was the foundation their friendship had initially been built on. 

“Well, good thing I’m here for you to ramble at.” He teases, heart swelling with warmth and affection for his outcast friend. 

Howard tries to hide his smile under his moustache. “I don’t ramble, I teach.” 

“You ramble.” Vince steps through the door that Howard is holding open for him and into the Reptile Lounge; Mr Rogers the old Cobra is already perked up and eyeing them with what Vince can only interpret as tired suspicion. Vince greets him with a polite wave before turning on his heel to address Howard. “You gonna ‘teach’ me this bit or?” 

Without words Howard moves through the motions, no doubt expecting that Vince will keep a keen eye on him. He is irritatingly correct on that account. After double checking that the lock on each enclosure is secure (they are) he gestures to the exit once more. “Easy peasy.” He says, plucking Vince’s thoughts directly from his brain. 

The voice comes as he’s about to step out into the night air, _Humour him_

Startled, he spins back into the room to investigate. There is only Mr Rogers still up, eyes glowing at him. 

“What’s wrong?” The other keeper has stopped too, looking back into the room as if there might be something for him to see. Vince is too busy in a staring competition with a snake to provide an explanation. 

_He’s trying so hard._ Echoes in his head, and Vince wishes he could tell him he was wrong. 

“Vince?” 

He looks up at Howard. Mr Rogers wins the staring match by forfeit. “What?” 

“What do you mean ‘what’? I asked you what,” Howard’s torch light flicks to the Cobra that is now curling himself beneath a rock (in a distinctly smug fashion) and back again. “He talking?” 

Vince swears that the serpent winks at him. “Just saying goodnight.” 

Howard doesn’t look like he believes him, because an unfortunate byproduct of them being best friends is that he can in fact read Vince like a book. By some miracle, though, he decides this is nothing important enough to press and ushers them out of the door anyway.

A padlock is passed to him and he clicks it in place under the watchful eye of his mentor, glad when he gets the smile that means he did something good.

“And now?” The eager edge to his question is not entirely faked. 

“That’s it.” Howard says, “Bed time.” 

Having now completed his first ever round on night watch he concludes that this is _easily_ a one person job. There’s no doubt in his mind that if he should request it, he wouldn’t be required to work a shift like this again - but in his mind's eye he sees Howard wandering between cages by himself. He imagines him putting all the animals to bed quickly and in spectacularly boring fashion ( _they’re never usually like this, you must bring it out in them)_ and never cracking a smile while he does. He thinks of his friend settling down in the freezing cold keepers hut and having nothing but ambient animal calls for company. 

The tight feeling in his chest as a result of these thoughts reassures him he’ll never turn down a night watch ever again. 

Using the light of his torch he indicates back down the path they came. “Come on then, I’m gasping for a cuppa.” 

They pass directly by Fossil's window as they venture back towards their digs for the night. Behind the closed blinds there is still a light on; nothing more than a dim glow coming from inside. He thinks he can hear the low hum of music as well. 

He stops short. "What's Fossil doing in there?" 

Howard pauses too, his torch light dropping to the floor as he cocks his head a little to listen. A smirk makes its way onto the older teens face, he moves to carry on walking. "I don't think you want to know." 

The thought of whatever it _might_ be sets Vince away giggling uncontrollably. It doesn't stop until they get back to the hut and shut themselves safely inside. "He's a bit of a weirdo, Fossil, isn't he?" 

There is little to no thought behind Howard's agreement. "As weird as they come," he says, flicking the kettle on. "Tea?" 

"Please." 

The time Howard takes to make their tea is ample opportunity for Vince to change out of his uniform. 

There had been an incredible dilemma when packing an overnight bag for this endeavor - given that normally he’d sleep in a decidedly clothless fashion. For the sake of his friend, though, he pulls on an aged t-shirt and some blue pyjama bottoms. 

By the time Howard presses a mug into his hands he is pulling his sleeping bag about himself. 

"Reminds me of the sleepovers we had as kids." He says, the _thank you_ is implied. 

“A bit,” Still in his full uniform- Khaki shirt and all- Howard drops heavily onto the sofa. “Except my mum isn’t here to yell at you for being loud.”

Vince snickers. “Not my fault your family are twice as dull as you are.” His hands encase the warm cup and bring it close to himself as if he can steal its heat through proximity alone. 

They lapse into comfortable silence. 

Vince, still wrapped in his sleeping bag, props himself against the sofa by Howard’s feet; knees tucked to his chest. Behind him he can hear his friend shuffling about. That bloody uniform rustles with every move he makes.The radio starts to play a soft tune, and the rustle continues as he twists to pick up his book. 

In the wake of the comfortable familiarity that settles between them, his brain idles dangerously once more. He thinks about everything and nothing. Mr Rogers makes an appearance, hissing his admonishments. Should he perhaps express some gratitude to all Howard has done for him? After all, he never really said an explicit thank you for getting him this job, or for teaching him everything he now knows. 

But surely he doesn’t _need_ to say it. It should be implied. 

Naturally, that slippery slope leads back to his least favourite song, returning with vengeance. _Khaki. Fever._

“Howard?” 

When Vince turns his face up, the older teen is nose first in that ridiculously large book from earlier. He’s squinting at the words in the low lamplight of the room but he has the courtesy to hum so Vince knows he’s listening. 

Now or never. 

“What’s Khaki Fever?” 

The world has been paused. Well, it's less like an act of pausing and more like when the needle gets ripped from a turntable. Sudden and scratching. There’s nothing to be heard; not the ambient sounds of animal calls outside, not the hum of the radio, not even a breath from either of them. It’s all stopped. 

Vince swallows and it’s the loudest sound in the room besides that of his blood rushing in his ears. 

“Howard?” 

Time resumes. The needle drops and the record goes on; outside the birds screech unpleasantly. Howard’s book snaps shut. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Where’d you hear about that?” 

“Leroy.” 

“Leroy?” 

“Yeah, told me I’d come down with it.” He stares up at the ceiling like it might give Howard some perceived sense of privacy. He makes some attempt at humour, “Worried I might be sick or somethin’.” 

The other man clears his throat again, then once more after that for good measure. “You’re not sick.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure. You shouldn’t listen to Leroy, yeah?” Howard pauses, then, like the master of deflection he is, asks, “What was he even doing here, anyway, he works at the Post Office.” 

“He dropped in for a cuppa, wanted to see if there was any more jobs going.” 

“What’s wrong with his job?” 

“Apparently Mrs Camembert's gone a bit wrong.” 

“A bit wrong?” 

“That’s what he said,” Vince explains, working from memory of the conversation. “Turned up one day and she’s all tilted like that tower of pizza.” 

A breathy chuckle from Howard. “Do you mean the leaning tower of Pisa?” 

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Vince rolls his eyes despite the small smirk on his face. “Anyway, she’s got the tilts. Leroy says she’ll just fall right over sometimes 'cause her balance is ruined. Reckons he doesn’t do much work besides putting the displays back up after she knocks them over during a tilting.” 

“That’s terrible.” 

“Exactly. But I told him we couldn’t get him on here, so I think he’s going to try the ice rink.” 

Howard hums again and that is that. The conversation is over. 

Vince realises, belatedly, that he didn't actually get the kind of answer he had initially been hoping for. He really should have factored in Howard's ability to dodge topics that he was uncomfortable with; paired with the fact he knew exactly how to get Vince chatting about other useless babble made for a deadly combination.

He could ask again (if he were a braver man) but the likelihood of getting an answer on the second attempt is even slimmer than the first. 

And as much as he didn't get a direct answer, Howard’s avoidance of the whole thing does tell him _something_. 

There’s a very specific number of things that Howard Moon outright refuses to talk about. He'd talk about anything if it offered the chance to brag, add to his 'complicated' persona, or make him sound interesting in some way. The things that fell into the category of _not open for discussion_ typically had to do with his family or his love life. Even then _Vince_ could normally pry something out of him. 

Howard's silence on this topic spoke volumes. 

It also convinces Vince that he has to figure out how to prove that he hasn’t got this Fever so they can both get on with their lives for good. 

But that isn’t gonna happen tonight. 

So, he sets his half empty mug aside and lays himself out on the floor “Night, Howard.” He sighs as he snuggles down. 

Howard doesn’t look anywhere near ready to sleep himself, but he still smiles gently down at the younger teen and nudges him with his foot. “Goodnight, Vince.”

_5\. Oh, you clever little things  
_ _The sycophantic teens  
_ _What a precious basket case_

After working at the zoo for almost four months you would think that Vince wouldn’t be bothered at all by their manager Fossil anymore. The american is loud and wacky like a canoe full of Howler Monkeys, and only _sometimes_ as fun as one. But he’s also intense in a way that makes Vince squirm to be alone with him. 

Spending his entire childhood in the presence of some pretty dangerous predators has left Vince with a warped sense of self preservation. But when you’re raised by hunters as babysitters, by proxy you become one, right? - this puts Vince at the top of any given food chain by his count. He very rarely finds himself intimidated by the people around him even when he _probably_ should be. 

Howard calls it naivety, Vince prefers to call it bravery. 

And Howard has sworn to him over and over that Fossil is harmless, which Vince believes. He’s never _seen_ their manager do anything that could be considered dangerous (creepy - yes - but nothing that a swift dodge and a harsh word hasn’t put to a stop to) and the likelihood is he never would. There’s this look in his eye, though. 

He’s always uneasy when Bob Fossil enters a room. Vince isn’t accustomed to feeling like prey but that’s exactly how the zoo manager looks at him. 

Perhaps it’s got a lot to do with the sheer absurdity of the man. The things he says and does, it’s like witnessing a cartoon character in the flesh. Don’t get him wrong, Vince loves the absurd. He’d sooner spend a day feeding a baguette to a funky Cephalopod while they discuss colour theory than pulling a Howard and finding enjoyment in _reading_. 

But the blend of abnormal and in charge doesn’t sit too well with him. Fossil is a freak and _still_ manages to command a terrifying level of respect among the staff. Vince has seen him demand things that are surely in no one's job description and yet they happen without much question. 

He's seen Howard bend to this will with a startling level of submissiveness. 

It makes Vince feel like there’s something sinister lurking underneath all that wacky. 

When the announcement crackled out across the zoo ( _"A message for my wonderboy, Vincey, I need to see him in my office pronto!”_ ) he’d been so surprised by it that Howard had been forced to send him on his way with a tight smile and a nudge to his back. 

It’s certainly not the first time he’s been _in_ the office. The day he was hired he stood, body angled and slightly hidden by Howard’s larger frame, as the older teen negotiated his employment. Following that he and his friend would be called upon for one bizarre reason or another and as he grew in confidence there was less standing behind Howard and more standing shoulder to shoulder with him in solidarity; feeding off each other’s confidence. 

In hindsight, Howard very rarely radiates anything close to confidence, and it was more likely his need to not be made a fool of in front of Vince that kept him from crumbling like a wet paper towel whenever Mr. Fossil started ranting at them. 

Which was often. 

Having to face it on his own for the first time was a little daunting, especially when the Howard shaped space beside him was so obviously empty. And yes, Vince was trying to get better at the whole ‘standing on his own two feet’ thing in response to everyone’s misguided assumptions that he was destined for unrequited love with his mentor. But he still longs to have his lanky best friend to hide behind at his leisure. 

Since they’d met Howard has had a protective streak as wide as he is tall. Sometimes it’s annoying, perpetuating the ‘ _Howard’s girlfriend’_ role he had found himself placed in. But other times, and again, this was something Vince intended to take to his grave lest it be misconstrued as him _fancying_ him; sometimes having Howard subconsciously step in front of him when he perceived a threat (whether it was playground bullies or a looney American) was quite flattering. Despite the fact when it comes to fight or flight Howard is solidly in the _flight_ category. It’s the thought that counts, he supposes. 

His support at this moment will be sorely missed. 

But Vince was refusing to let it get to him. In the back of his mind he remembered lessons Jahooli taught him when he was growing up. _Remember Vince, if you can’t hunt you become hunted._

Which he thinks, when taken in this context, just means he has to prove himself unshaken by the man at the top. Assert his dominance or something. 

Hovering outside the door, his head bent toward the wood and his breath held tight in his chest, he can hear music. That in itself is not an uncommon occurrence. It would probably be pretty hard _not_ to hear it given how loud it was playing. Personally, he didn’t recognise the track and was in no hurry to investigate it further. Briefly considers turning tail and hiding out until he can be a bit braver. 

He steels himself. Thinks of Jahooli, and then knocks on the door. 

“Just a minute, I’m body poppin’ in here!” Is what is shouted through the wood. Vince turns the handle anyway and is satisfied to hear the music scratch to a halt. 

Being inside the office sets his teeth on edge. His muscles tense. His fists clench. Yet he makes a calculated effort to keep his smile charming; some predators camouflage with spots and stripes but Vince didn’t have those. He just had his hair and his face. 

Fossil is breathing heavy like he has run a marathon - body popping he’d said. Vince keeps himself at a distance. Only moves as far as is necessary to close the door behind him and then hovers carefully on the outskirts of the room. The silence between them is stifling. 

Vince is reminded of big cats sizing each other up before an all claws battle for leadership. 

Not that he wants that, wouldn’t even _imagine_ going against this lunatic; but it is distinctly uncool to back down from a challenge. So he holds his own. 

“Vince!” Fossil cracks first, throwing his arms wide in a friendly gesture. He makes no attempt to hide the way his eyes drag from Vince’s head to his feet. “Come in. Sit down.” 

Reluctant to do anything of the sort he instead takes two careful steps into the room. He doesn’t sit. “Have I done something wrong, Mr Fossil?” 

Fossil’s plump cheeks dimple with a smile that on the surface is friendly. “You? Of course not!” 

“Brilliant.” Despite Fossil’s insistence on yelling everything, Vince is unflinching. In an act of defiance, he shoves his hands in his pockets and allows his hip to cock to one side; an illusion of carelessness. “What did you want then?” 

“Oh I got some fantabulous news for you, Vincey.” The other man starts a beckoning gesture with his finger and it automatically makes Vince frown. He reluctantly takes one further step towards the desk. “Basically, Tony Ice has hopped on a crazy train outta town and I gotta find a new key bitch.” 

“Key bitch?” 

“Yeah.” An absurdly large key ring loaded with keys in an imaginative range of shapes and sizes rattles its way out of Fossil’s desk drawer. He holds them out proudly. “Looks after these, wears the big boy pants, gets to be my special little bitch in charge of all the other bitches.” 

He’s being offered the head keeper job. Howard was always going on about what an honour that job would be. If he was going to keep circling back to his animal upbringing then this was pretty much the same as being the second in command to a pack alpha - and Vince could get on board with that. 

He’s a little curious what kind of zoo makes a sixteen year old (granted he would be seventeen in a few short months) their head keeper. 

Before he can stop himself he’s asking, “Why me?” 

“Well,” Fossil pauses - Vince would say in thought, but he doubts this man has ever put enough thought into anything for it to require a pause. “It’s a little like being a sexually frustrated pig farmer, Vince,” And there are several things he wants to say but is too stunned to do so. Fossil continues, “Except all my pigs are stupid and can’t do their little pig jobs, and I can’t afford to buy any new pigs, so I’ve picked the prettiest pig that reminds me a little of the wife that left me and hope that it’s the answer to all my problems.” 

This. This is exactly the kind of stuff that throws him. Vince is entirely used to living on a different planet than most people, but Fossil seems to be in a whole other reality and he’s not sure if it’s one he wants to be a part of. Internally Vince is gaping at him. Externally he puts his mask of charming indifference to good use; forces a smile on that he hopes says _I totally understand_. 

“That, and I won’t have to pay you as much as the others.” Fossil adds. “On account of you being one of the little ones.” 

That’s the most sensible thing he’s ever heard the zoo manager say since he started working here all those months ago. 

Having heard more than enough, more than he ever imagined he would have heard when he first arrived; including being likened to a pig and Fossil’s estranged wife respectively. Vince decides it’s time to grab those keys and scram. The grin that splits his face as he holds his hand out for the keys is a little more sincere this time. “Thanks, Mr Fossil!” 

The cool metal weight barely hits his palm before he’s turned on his heel and is sliding out of the office. There’s a call from the other man, _“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and listen to some music with me?”_ but he pretends he doesn’t hear him. Makes a point to pull the door shut a tad harder than is strictly necessary.

And in the fresh air of a spring morning his first thought is that he has to tell Howard. 

He will be on his lunch break now. A stickler for his routine, Howard can spend hours telling the world what a free spirit he is, Vince will always know better. He was comfortably predictable and it happened to be a trait Vince appreciated; you could almost always track him down when you needed him. 

And sure enough Howard is propped stiffly at the table when Vince bursts through the door. Deep breath sitting in his lungs ready to relay the story of what’s just gone down to his friend, but the air rushes out of him all at once when he takes a good look at him. 

It looks a little like _Melancholy of the Keeper._ The sandwich which is supposed to be lunch is instead being prodded at dejectedly; untouched otherwise. And Vince is used to his best friend being a bit on the blue side, pessimism is his default state after all, but upon taking stock of the atmosphere around them he decides this is no regular level of sadness. 

Howard plays jazz when he’s feeling a bit off. He plays jazz all the time, but there’s a specific record that is reserved for a bad mood and Vince is used to hearing it at least twice a week. It’s his way of announcing that he’s unhappy about something trivial and wants everyone in a certain vicinity to know about it.

If he’s not bothering with his record then something must _actually_ be wrong. 

His entrance hadn’t exactly been quiet, what with him having a penchant for being dramatic. The door had swung on it’s hinges as he’d tumbled through in his haste to share his news with Howard. 

Yet, when he utters a gentle, “Alright, Howard?” his friend looks up as if it startles him. Like he hadn’t noticed Vince was even there. 

He gets a nod in greeting. “Vince.” 

Carefully, like Howard taught him to do when approaching a startled animal, Vince shuffles closer. The keys now at his belt like an eccentric accessory, jangle the whole way to the table. Howard is so lost in his wallowing that he doesn’t notice. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Aiming for an air of casualness, he easily grabs one half of the uneaten sandwich and begins tucking into it. He’s disappointed when Howard doesn’t stop him like he had expected. 

“Oh, nothing…” Howard sighs. But in an instant he changes his mind, and it suddenly isn’t _nothing_ anymore. “Fossil passed me up, _again._ ”

Vince stops chewing. “He what?” 

“Passed me up, Vince. Overlooked me. Failed to appreciate my raw talent as a zookeeper.” The northern man waves his hands about erratically as he talks. “Graham said he’s made someone else the head keeper. Which was supposed to be my job. I was born for it.” 

Vince resists the urge to ask just _how many_ jobs Howard was born for, sensing that his teasing will not be welcome at a time like this. He has to force himself to swallow around the ash taste in his mouth. “Is being head keeper really that big a deal?” 

“Maybe not to someone like you.” The way he says it sounds enough like an insult and Vince glares at him for his troubles; Howard quickly clarifies, “You’ve never needed to try to get noticed.” 

Mentally, Vince kicks himself. 

Howard has always had a complicated relationship with his own self worth. What that means is, he doesn’t really have any. 

A false ego does wonders to throw people off the scent usually, and Howard keeps a Rolodex of personalities ready to do just that. He’s a man of action. An edgy character. A deep and complex work of a person. An explorer, adventurer, writer, poet, musician - the list goes on. The man spends his life trying to defend his existence to others rather than just living and being happy with who he is. He always has something to prove; waiting for the day someone will deem him worthy so he can let himself _breathe._

Yet, true to his claim of being complex; Howard was stubborn in his need to be recognised as himself and nothing else. It wasn’t about fitting in with a crowd, it was more likely about proving to himself that he was valid as he is. 

When they first met Howard had spent three whole days laying on illusions of grandeur; even at ten and speaking to someone some years younger, he felt the need to do it. He was a music prodigy and a blossoming academic - Vince had heard it all and decided definitively that he wanted to be this boy’s best friend. He could understand the beauty of hiding behind stories. 

And all these years later it’s still a part of Howard that he, in some strange way, respects. Vince doesn’t understand many complex things but he understands his best mate and he knows that Howard also accumulates worth based on the things he can achieve (and thus use as extra ego padding) and punishes himself with the things he can’t.

Head keeper won’t matter much to him but to Howard it’s a new way of qualifying himself. 

Comforting was almost definitely not going to work but he tried it anyway. “Awh c’mon Howard, you don’t need the keeper position to be noticed.” 

“Yeah? I’ll tell Graham that.” Howard's eyes roll skyward. “It’s not just about being noticed though is it? I’ve worked for it. Years I’ve been here and what have I got to show for it?” 

Vince’s stomach lurches, the two bites of sandwich he’s eaten threaten to make a reappearance. Regardless of Howard’s potential self confidence issues, he is correct in insisting that he’s worked for it. No one spends as much time here as Howard, who may as well live here for all it’s worth, Vince isn’t certain the man has taken a single day off in his years of employment. 

_He_ _got Vince his job._

“You’ve got me.” He tries, hopefully. “Don’t need to be head keeper to have a star pupil, do you?” 

A smile twitches desperately on Howard’s face but it’s suffocated before it gets the chance to spread. He’s left still frowning down at the table. 

Vince makes a choice then. It doesn’t take him long to make it, he is something of a master of the impulse decision. Especially when looking across the table at the older teen reminds him that despite being a natural pessimist, it is pretty easy to make Howard happy when you’re Vince Noir. 

So Vince reaches down and unhooks the keys from his belt and drops them on the table with a clatter. The noise startles Howard, and he darts a look between Vince and what he has deposited. His face drains of the already minimal colouring it had.

“Did- did Fossil give you those?” 

“Yeah.” 

The air between them starts to get tense, and Howard's face changes. It’s morphing into _Grief of the Monk_. So before he gets the wrong idea, Vince slides them noisily across the surface of the table until they nudge at Howard’s long fingers pointedly. 

Howard doesn’t move, Vince presses with the keys again, but he doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening. “Take the bloody keys, Howard.” 

“But he gave them to you.” 

Vince laughs; relaxed and airy. “We both know I’d probably just lose them.” 

This is entirely true. His foster parents still won’t give him a house key for this exact reason. It seemed like a good excuse to use to cover the fact that he genuinely thought Howard had earned the keys, and he hadn’t. 

But he couldn’t just come out and say it like that could he. 

“You take ‘em. You’re old and responsible.” As he says it he smirks, catching his tongue in his teeth. It’s an offer, the beginning of a familiar dance that usually draws Howard in. Banter was their bread and butter. 

“Old?” Howard snaps, taking the bait beautifully. “I’m barely three years older than you, you tit.” 

“Yeah, but you’ve got all that life experience. It’s aged you.” 

Howard snorts at that, and he finally, _finally_ , picks up the keys from the table. “You sure about this?” 

Vince, now feeling better about himself, grabs up his (Howard’s) sandwich again and takes a healthy bite. “‘Course. Fossil thinks I’m in charge, but I’m delegating to you, yeah? It’s like you’re my second in command. My general… My little bitch boy” 

“Alright, don’t push it, little man.” He chastises, finally grabs up the half of the sandwich that Vince left behind and starts to eat. 

Vince watches him openly with a smile and forces himself not to think about that fever that just might be getting worse. 

_6\. I have a friend, with whom I like to spend anytime I can find  
_ _With, I like sleeping in your bed  
_ _I like knowin' what is goin' on inside your head  
_ _I like taking time and I like your mind_

When Vince turns seventeen he isn’t expecting much of a celebration on account of the fact that they are (of course) at work all day _and_ scheduled for a night shift. 

It is, safe to say, not Vince’s ideal way of spending a birthday - he would have preferred literally any activity that allowed for him to bask in some attention for a bit. Ideally a party, but Howard has trouble with those, so perhaps even just a night off for the pair of them to get a takeaway and hole up in Vince’s bedroom to drink whatever piss poor excuse for beer Howard can get them. 

Wishful thinking when it came to the Zooniverse, really. 

Howard does wish him a happy birthday the second he sets foot in the keepers hut, though. Even graces him with a _genuine_ grin (the puppyish kind that’s all teeth) as he does. To Vince that smile is just as exciting as a party. 

“Was half expecting you to not turn in.” He greets, absently flicking through the rota. 

He can only shrug, more than aware he was known to skive a day or two from school if it was his birthday. Or another special occasion. Or a Tuesday. “Well it was here or at home with the rabble.” 

Howard grimaces in sympathy. Vince has gone through his fair share of foster families since their friendship began. Ranging from homely ones, to the downright awful ones. This one is most likely going to be the last before he reaches adulthood and leaves the system, though. It is also chock full of as many kids as the couple thinks they can handle at one time; all of whom are at _least_ ten years younger than Vince himself. 

As a general rule, Vince actually loves kids (he basically still _is_ one) and he really likes the family he lives with. It’s arguably one of the best he’s had; the couple who keep him are friendly and unobtrusive - he has his own bedroom and is mostly left to his own devices. But he doesn’t particularly hold the desire to be around literal children all of the time. Probably why he was so eager to get a full time job this young. 

He can’t wait to be out of that house and on his own. 

Or you know, with Howard. 

“Much on today?” He asks, his Zooniverse jacket is pulled over his shoulders as Howard hands him the freshly cleaned blender for today’s food prep. They operate like clockwork now, it's a pleasing process to behold and a better one to be a part of. 

“Porpoise race has been rained off so no, just the usual.” 

“Brilliant.” And he means it. 

What he’s expecting even less than a birthday celebration is Roberto the Llama making a grand escape at noon. 

Pretty much all the staff are expected to help get him back, because Roberto happens to be a bloody smart Llama. Having made several unsuccessful attempts like this before, he is clearly on a warpath now that he has been triumphant; spends an hour just hoofing his way through the general public indiscriminately while keepers follow behind apologising and trying to lasso him with a length of rope. 

Howard and Vince finally corner him in the gift shop. Turns out Roberto is not only smart but a complete psycho; he’s wearing a false moustache and targeting small children trying to buy pencil toppers. 

Naturally Vince offers to take the lead on this one. “Leave this to me,” He announces proudly, all confidence and untainted ego. After all, he is the one that can actually talk to animals. If you ignore the fact that he’s better with small Monkeys and Lizards, this is a perfect opportunity to show off with his natural born talent. 

Except even just him saying, “Hey big guy,” gets him completely riled up enough to kick over a display stand of commemorative fridge magnets. 

Startled, he bounces on his toes behind Howard’s shoulder and ends up shoving the older teen towards him instead. 

He’s never been good with hoofed animals. Howard, however. Howard is amazing with them. He approaches Roberto with hands outstretched and a confidence that makes Vince’s tummy flutter. Aware that he’s staring, he watches as Howard soothes the ruffled animal with gentle murmurs and even goes as far as dragging his fingers through it’s fur. 

It’s pretty brilliant to witness despite the fact Vince finds himself unreasonably jealous of the petting the animal is getting. 

Howard gets the halter over Roberto's head before the Camelid even knows what’s going on.

After they’ve successfully lead the Llama back into his rightful home and double (triple) checked the lock on his enclosure is secure this time, Vince offers Howard a friendly pat on the shoulder that for once isn’t shrugged off. “That was brilliant, Howard!” 

“You think?” If he didn’t know better he would swear he could see a blush on his friends features. 

“Yeah,” Vince smiles, then helpfully adds, “Didn’t know you got off with Llamas.” 

Rather than be offended, Howard simply snorts. “That’s just how you calm a Llama down, Vince.” 

He giggles in response, “Calm a Llama down.” He repeats joyfully. 

Before he knows it there’s a jaunty tune swirling in his head and another line of dialogue slips from his lips. Howard’s eyes find his and it’s like coming home. Grinning that grin again for the second time today, he joins in with his own colorful lyrics. Vince has never put a name to this thing they do, this little routine they know as well as themselves. It’s just another part of who they are. An identity. They’ve been doing it since they were children. 

When they round out on a sharp inhale there’s a moment's silence. Standing facing one another outside of the Llama enclosure, Vince peeks up through his fringe and Howard with his chin tilted down looks right back at him. They allow a beat for the magic of what’s just happened to settle and then they break out into fits of laughter. 

Vince laughs so hard his cheeks hurt. 

The rest of the day passes without much incident. Vince spends his break feeding what is supposed to be his food to the Ocelots while Howard watches him from a nearby bench and shakes his head disapprovingly; the smirk he wears lends itself to how amusing he finds it all, though. 

Night watch rolls around almost too quickly. It was still the kind of shift that no one ever wanted to do. Well, no one except Vince and Howard, who both openly enjoyed the after dark adventure. So it was no surprise really when the other keepers would swap around the rota so that the pair always ended up working them. 

And despite having been on the job all day, Vince still found it in himself to be as sickeningly enthusiastic as ever. 

After all, he _was_ spending his birthday with Howard - just like he’d wanted. 

At eight, they start their rounds; as they do most nights. The first few sections fly over in a blur thanks to the buzzing energy Vince has decided to bring to the evening. He's rigged like a live wire most of the time anyway, but on a day like today he worries he may be slightly overcharged. 

It starts with a little tune he hums under his breath as they put the birds inside. That progresses to a sway of his hips, feet tapping, and eventually peaks when he practically skips his way to the Moonlight World - Howard watching him complete this evolution with utter amusement.

“You’re happy tonight.” The older keeper comments. His torch light fixed firmly ahead (as usual) while Vince's darts around erratically in line with his motion. 

“It’s my _birthday_ Howard!” He practically whines. “Everyone’s happy on their birthday.” 

“But you’re _working_ on your birthday and you haven’t complained about it once.” 

Vince simply shrugs. “Maybe I’m growing up. Trying to be all mature and responsible about it.” 

The footsteps beside him come to an abrupt stop, and when he turns to investigate, Howard has gone still with a funny look on his face. It’s a smile, but there’s something like pride amongst that humour. “I live in fear of the day Vince Noir grows up.” He fakes a shudder. 

Really, Vince can't find it in himself to be offended by that comment. Instead, he gives a firm nod of agreement, twisting his face into a faux grimace. "You're right, actually, how dull would that be?" He mimics Howard's shudder. "Ugh, all that having mortgages and paying council tax."

"Is that all you think adulthood is?" Howard asks, bemused. 

"Oh it'll be awful, Howard." Vince goes the extra mile, clutches his stomach like the thought makes him physically sick. "People would call me Mr Noir and I'd have to worry about bills." 

Howard rolls his eyes fondly. "Come on, Mr Noir, we've got places to be." 

They only had a few more stops before they could call it a night and retire back to the hut, and Howard set them back on route with a nudge to his elbow. Vince drops his act almost as fast as it had manifested, grinning widely at his friend. "I'm like Peter Pan." He announces. "I'm never growin' up."

The look Howard gives him then makes his chest tight with something unknown. There's a ghost of a smirk, and his eyes won't settle. They seem to dart over every inch of Vince's face before he glances away again. "Thank god for that." He utters softly. 

Vince can't find his breath to reply, so he charges ahead like he never had any intention of doing so. 

Wolf Mountain is his favourite place in the whole zoo, he thinks. Especially at night when the moon is high in the sky, casting everything in a milky dreamlike glow. The silhouette of the rocky shape reaching up to the sky proudly. He supposes that’s why he tugs at Howard’s jacket and asks _“Can we just..?”_ and with a nod of agreement they hover at the base of the structure a little longer than necessary. The area has been checked and their jobs completed but they linger anyway. They just want to watch the moon. 

Sometimes, Vince swears he can hear it speak, but that’s another matter for another day. 

Not a thing can be said at a moment like that. A moment when two unlikely best friends find themselves standing side by side stargazing. 

He might not be a smart kid, but Vince at least understands that sometimes silence says more than words can. This silence says a lot. It says more than any of Howard's fancy poetry ever could. It feels a lot like a “ _Look at where we are now.”_ or perhaps, “ _I wonder where we’ll end up next.”_

Sentimental, like. 

Or it could just be the silence wishing him a happy birthday. He likes the idea of that, too. 

When they do finally get moving again it’s because Vince wants so badly to tell Howard what he can hear in this quiet (crazy or not, Howard would always listen) that he turns his head and - and Howard isn’t looking at the moon. 

Howard was looking at Vince. 

A realisation which slams all the air from his chest and instead leaves them wordlessly locking eyes. 

Eventually the inevitable awkwardness of Moon wins out. He clears his throat. “It’s getting chilly out.” He comments. It’s about the dumbest thing Vince has ever heard him say simply because it wasn’t what he _wanted_ to hear. 

It is quite cold. The summer is fast approaching, but not fast enough, and it gives them both the perfect out. “Come on then, before that ‘stache freezes and falls off your face.” 

And under their combined weight the moment shatters. Replaced instead with the familiar comfort of banter. 

“It’s not _that_ cold.” Howard rolls his eyes, forces Vince’s feet into action by starting off down the path without him. 

They hurry themselves back down the way they came; now that all duties are completed their pace is quicker. Words aren’t necessary, still, the silence keeps them in good company. 

By the time they push their way into the warm air of the keepers hut, it’s about ten minutes to midnight and Vince’s feet are killing him. Howard continually insists that he should wear more appropriate shoes to work, but Vince has always preferred to look good over being comfortable. 

“Put the kettle on, I’m gasping.” Vince says, well, demands. He would do it himself but he has already collapsed onto the sofa to tug his favourite white cowboy boots off and relieve his aching toes. 

Typically Howard would complain about being asked to do such a thing, if not begin a full blown bicker about it. Vince would be forced to break out his big blue eyes and world famous pout in order to get what he wants. 

So it’s incredibly suspicious when all the other man does is nod his head and flick the kettle on without so much as a sigh. 

It sets Vince on high alert immediately. 

He pauses, boot only halfway off. “You alright, Howard?”

“Yeah. Fine.” And honestly, he wasn’t aware Howard’s eyes could get any shiftier, but they somehow manage it. “Should we shower?” 

Vince cries, “You what?” At the exact same moment that Howard realises what he’s said and sputters. “I meant, do _you_ want to shower?” 

He can’t quite reign his giggling in once it’s started. Vince can find humour in almost anything, he thinks the world is made up of funny things if you care to look in the right places. Anything is fair game for a laugh. But what he finds _especially_ funny is when Howard manages to trigger his own awkward nature like some self fulfilling prophecy. 

The way he stands now, head dipped low and cheeks turning rapidly crimson because of his own phrasing of an innocent question - _this_ is comedy gold to Vince. 

“Yeah I’ll go.” He utters eventually, releasing him from any further embarrassment. “Could do with one, I reckon.” 

Howard watches as he presses himself to his feet; that suspicious gaze following him as he fishes for his nightclothes and slides by him. “I’ll have your tea ready.” He promises when Vince narrows his gaze right back at him in challenge. 

“You’re up to something.” He insists, pausing in the open bathroom doorway. 

“ _You’re_ getting paranoid,” Howard shoots back - too quickly for his liking. 

Whatever it is, Vince is fairly sure Howard won’t be able to hide it from him for long. He’s not _that_ good of an actor, and he’ll give himself away in good time. So, as if to demonstrate his maturity, he pulls an exaggerated frown at him as he swings the door closed. 

It’s a bit of a process, having a shower in the keepers hut. The small bathroom that has been crudely installed in there is probably exactly as old as Vince three times over and it shows. Or rather, it _sings_. The pipes vocalise anytime they get the chance, their backing track is the constant drip of the tap and the clunk of the boiler as it tries desperately to actually heat the water. 

Vince’s performances are never without a support band, though. 

No shower ever taken here lasts more than eight minutes (Howard actually timed it once) because that’s exactly how much heat you’re ever going to get out of it. A real sacrifice for someone like Vince who takes that time just to shampoo his hair, but he can make do on the few occasions he actually chooses to make use of it. 

Tonight though, he has every intention of being done in five. All the better for catching Howard in the act of his devious plot. 

It’s like a military operation in action how he executes each step with practiced ease. Taps turned on. Hair snatched up in one of the many elastics he carries on his wrist. Clothes shed. Hissing through his teeth when he steps under a spray that isn’t quite as warm as he’d hoped it would be. All the important bits are lathered with soap and rinsed. He can skip his hair for tonight, it’s for a good cause.

Taps off and towel down. 

He can’t help but internally congratulate himself on his speed as he pulls on his pyjamas and a worn pink shirt. Howard would be lulled into a false sense of security, knowing how long Vince can take to do even the simplest of tasks. 

When he cracks the door open, he does so slowly, hoping to minimise the noise the aged hinges will make. He presses his face close to the sliver, peeking out. Can’t _see_ Howard, and can’t _hear_ him either - which is by far the most worrying thing about this situation. 

Vince has been in conversation with silence all night but this is something different. 

This is manufactured. It’s the kind of forced silence that means someone is trying desperately not to be heard. The kind that Vince knows well, having memorised every creaky floorboard in his foster parents' house so that he can creep by once the sun has gone down. 

If he strains he can hear the tiniest sounds. A drawer opening. The crinkle of a packet. The rustle of Howard’s uniform. But it’s contained noise; muffled. 

Howard is _definitely_ up to something. 

His covert operation goes out of the window at this confirmation - he’s never been able to sustain subtlety anyway, he isn't built for it - and he all but skips back into the main area with a grin on his face ready to catch Howard red handed. 

The wind is taken out of his sails a little when he takes in the scene before him. His steps stop short. He chokes around the exclamation he was about to give and instead ends up sort of _yelping_ in surprise, like a kicked puppy. 

Howard has a cake. 

Okay. It’s really only the size of a muffin (from here it looks to be a chocolate chip- Vince’s favourite) but it’s a cake nonetheless. There’s a candle stuck in it, one of those big wax numbers with a wick; it’s a _hideous_ shade of green, and for some reason it’s only the number seven, but it’s _perfect_. 

“You can’t leave _anything,_ can you?” Howard scolds. Paused as he is with a lighter halfway to the wick. “Too terrified of being left out, you are. And you call me paranoid.” 

Vince flicks his eyes up to Howard’s face; he can’t seem to close his mouth. 

It must be obvious he has frozen where he stands, because Howard resumes his task. Lights the candle and offers it out to him - rather anticlimactic now that the surprise has been trampled on. “Happy birthday, Vince.” He says quietly, sheepish. He won’t meet his eyes.

Vince can out-talk a chat show host even on a bad day. He is a master of the spoken word. There is nothing in the world that leaves Vince Noir speechless. Except his best friend surprising him with a little birthday cake - that can apparently shut him up quick smart. 

“I… I couldn’t fit both numbers on there.” Howard explains lamely; he misinterprets the silence. “And it’s not up to scratch of our usual birthdays but we were working so-”

“It’s perfect.” Now snapped out of it, a grin splits his face. He reaches for the small cake with a tremble in his hand that he can’t explain; cradles it like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held. “Plus- I’m basically seven mentally, so you got that right.” 

Howard laughs. He still dodges Vince’s gaze like he’s worried what it will give away. “Blow it out, then.” 

He does. Takes a deep breath (a bit too deep, it makes his head spin) and blows out the candle. In its wake the oddly satisfying smell of a recently extinguished flame fills his senses and his head still spins but he feels wonderful for it. Looking up, Howard’s smiling softly down at him and he beams back.

The moment seems to drag on for a beat too long. 

“You didn’t sing for me.” He finds himself saying. He pouts for good measure. It works; whatever tension has started to build deflates like a balloon and they can breathe again. 

“Funny you should mention that actually,” Howard clears his throat, tries drastically to conceal his amusement. “I would have. I was going to. But I came down with something-”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” His fingers touch to his throat as he speaks; Vince tracks the movement with his eyes. “Think it might be an infection. My throat is like sandpaper; can’t sing right now. Fairly sure if I tried I’d completely break my voice box.” 

“Is that right?” 

“It would crumble like an over baked biscuit.” 

Vince hums. He tugs the candle out of the little cake and starts to tear shreds from it to nibble on. Drops to the sofa and makes himself comfy. “Funny that; ‘cause I heard you scatting this morning and you sounded fine.” 

Howard, to his credit, only spends a few seconds trying to formulate a response before he mutters. “Technically scatting _isn’t_ singing.” 

“Whatever!” He exclaims on a laugh. “Whatever you want to call those demented noises; you were making ‘em no problem.” Howard joins him on the sofa and Vince jabs his finger at him accusingly. “So where’s my birthday song?” 

“You _always_ complain about my singing.” Howard makes a point of slapping the offending finger away from him. 

“But it’s my _birthday.”_

Silence settles over the hut, for whatever reason Howard has given up on this argument. It isn’t uncommon, Howard is often the one to give up on their back and forth first. Vince is still tearing off chunks of the cake to eat. He’s about to suggest they go to bed when Howard pulls a little wrapped gift from the pocket of his green jacket (he rarely takes the thing off, even when they are off duty) and offers it to him.

He definitely loses any care in the world he had for his birthday song when he sees it. The paper it’s wrapped in is multicoloured and sparkly. He already loves it regardless of what’s inside. 

If there’s one thing in the world Vince loves, it’s presents. He tears at the wrapping enthusiastically; revealed is a length of purple scarf with funky musical themed designs all over it. 

“It’s not much, but I thought you’d like it,” Howard mutters, looking down at his own hands that twist in his lap nervously. 

Vince feels similar to an overfilled balloon; stuffed full of _feelings_ and not sure where to put them. “This is genius, Howard! Thank you.” 

The scarf is wrapped around his throat and in the quiet Vince leans heavily against Howard’s side; for what it’s worth, the other only stiffens a little bit - he definitely doesn’t push him off. 

He pops another chunk of cake in his mouth and holds what’s left out to Howard, now finished with it. The other man easily takes it and quickly gobbles up the rest. It makes Vince smile to himself. 

Howard has a bit of a secret sweet tooth. While Vince's is obvious and difficult to satisfy, Howard pretends his doesn’t exist and practically starves it; any time Vince can coax him into indulging is a great moment. 

“You sure you won’t sing to me?” 

Howard shoves him off. 

_7\. A montage of adventures  
_ _Between a boy and between a girl  
_ _We'd meet mythical dark creatures  
_ _Travel all around the world_

There’s a short man in eccentric blue robes that’s been hanging around the zoo all day. At first it wasn’t anything to worry about, after all the kind of institute this is tends to attract all sorts of weird customers. You’re more likely to see a child smoking a pipe or group of people using spiders as eye patches than you are a regular family. 

Except they’re starting to close now and he’s still here. 

He’s been standing outside Mr Bollo’s enclosure for at least an hour just staring into the cage. If Vince didn’t know any better he’d say the man was crazy, but he did know better, he knew that things went on in this world that sometimes appeared crazy - but were actually perfectly reasonable. He talks to animals, for god’s sake. 

In the end all the keepers draw straws to see who will deal with him, and Vince loses. 

“Can I help you?” 

The man doesn’t answer for ages, he just keeps staring. Vince considers leaving to find Graham or Moose to get rid of this guy. He’s not exactly good at conflict. Well, he is, he’s a ragamuffin. But generally he’s not good at _starting_ conflict; he’s usually the one to finish something someone else starts (on more than one occasion he’s had to finish something _Howard_ starts). 

He isn’t certain he’d be able to physically throw this man out, even if he is a little on the short side.

Then all of a sudden the man looks him dead in the eye. Of all the things he could have done this is what Vince finds most unsettling. His steady gaze flicks from his head to toes and back again, then squints at him. A shudder travels up his spine. The man says, “I think I’m going to stick around.” 

And that’s it. He turns and shuffles off in the direction of Fossil's office. 

Left floundering, Vince looks after him. He continues watching as he disappears around the corner, and stares into the space that he left. Dimly, he is aware of a presence at his shoulder and he doesn’t need to look around to know that it’s Howard. 

“What was all that then?” 

Vince shrugs his shoulders. Eyes locked to the point the mysterious man disappeared to. “He said he was going to stick around, apparently?” 

Howard huffs a laugh, his head shaking in disbelief. “Well, I suppose it’s not the weirdest thing we’ve seen here.” 

That at least, Vince can agree with. This feels different though. He just can’t seem to put his finger on it; this isn’t just weird it’s something changing. Something big. Everything is frighteningly still, like the thick summer air before a storm breaks. Vince flexes his fingers, can feel static crackling as he does. 

The last time he felt like this Howard upped sticks and went off to work at a zoo. 

Leaving Vince behind. 

“Yeah.” He manages around the knot in his stomach. “Remember the pyramid man?” 

“God, yeah.” Howard’s turn to shudder. “What a pointy prick.” 

Vince is still staring after the small man in blue; can feel his friend looking down at him. Probably trying to figure out what’s got him so fascinated. In the end, he nudges him with his elbow and says, “Come on, little man, we’re done for the day.” 

He nods his head. Stares a moment more, and then he shakes himself out of it and follows Howard away. 

_8\. But lately I've been feeling strange  
_ _And everybody's telling me to act my age_

It’s been ages since he’s had a chance to see Leroy. The other teen got a job at the ice rink not long after he came sniffing around the zoo, and suddenly they were both busy enough to only exchange quick chats whenever they crossed paths - which wasn’t often at all. Their relationship never suffered though. Regardless of distance or time, Vince and Leroy remained good mates. 

So, when he is busy combing Bollo’s fur and Leroy appears, reclining against the bars of the enclosure in a casual manner, he can’t help but bounce excitedly over. “Leroy!” 

“Alright, Vince?” 

“It’s been ages!” Vince peers at him from inside the cage, a grin splitting his features. “How’s the ice rink?” 

“It’s good yeah.” He cocks his head to the side curiously. “Didn’t think you’d still be a zookeeper, to be honest.” 

There’s plenty that Vince can read into from that statement, but reading was typically Howard’s thing. So he opts to take it at face value and assume that what surprises his friend is the fact he has yet to get bored by his job. 

Leroy and Vince were alike in so many ways, but arguably the most prominent was their short attention spans. Leroy job hopped to an almost impressive level. He had done since he was fourteen and got bored of his paper round. It’s only natural he probably expects Vince to be set on the same path; Vince almost expected himself to be, to be honest. 

But he’s been here a year and a half and he’s yet to find anything that bores him about it. 

“Nah, it’s wicked working here.” Vince turns to brush his hand affectionately over Bollo’s furry head. “Howard reckons I could be head keepers sidekick by the time I’m twenty.” 

“Oh yeah? And what will Howard be?” 

“Head keeper.” 

Leroy snorts, amused. Vince chuckles along and chooses not to mention that six months ago _he’d_ been made head keeper; only to have the title revoked again once the incredibly changeable Bob Fossil found out he was sharing the responsibilities with Howard. They were both back to regular old keepers with Joey Moose crowned head keeper for now. Howard was quietly confident he’d earn the role for himself legitimately one day, though, and he promised (like he always did) that he would bring Vince along with him.

“Listen, have you seen Moon, I’m here to borrow some records from him.” 

Vince shrugs, tries his best to pretend that he doesn’t know _exactly_ where Howard is. “He’s in Aviary now, so he’s probably shuffling about with a bucket of seed somewhere.” 

“Weird that.” 

“What?” 

“You two being more than two feet apart; usually you’re hot on his heels.” He snickers, and then says something Vince has thought about every day for nearly a year. “Got over that fever did you?” 

_Khaki Fever._

“Yeah, thanks for that.” He cocks his head to the side, narrows his eyes, tries his best to emulate an intimidating facial expression. “I still don’t even know what that means.”

“What- you never asked.” 

“Well, I did but… Never got an answer.” 

This seems to tickle Leroy, makes him start chuckling so hard he presses the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle the noise. “I wonder why that is.” Vince frowns hard at him and reaches through the bars as if to grab for his friend. Leroy steps back enough to avoid the grasping fingers and holds his hands up in surrender. “Look, it was a joke. Don’t think about it too much.” 

That’s easier said than done for most people, but Vince truly has a talent for not thinking. All it takes is for Leroy to ask, “Can you still talk to animals?” and he forgets all about that stupid fever. He’s much too preoccupied using Bollo to show off. 

_9\. I'm just too much a coward  
_ _To admit when I'm in need_

After a lengthy discussion about slush puppies, Vince sends Leroy in the direction of where Howard should be and sets off for his own duties in the Aquarium. It’s then he passes the Camel shaped structure that had appeared out of nowhere one day and pauses in his tracks. 

Originally he had just assumed it was another insane scheme from their american manager. His investigation never went any further than briefly pointing it out to Howard and getting a shrug in response. It was usually never open, the shutters were perpetually pulled shut leaving it as more of a sculpture than a usable building. 

The shutters are open today. 

It looks like it's supposed to be a kind of kiosk. A random assortment of items are stacked on shelves with hastily scribbled prices; all typical paraphernalia you’d find in a place like this, animal themed foam masks and brightly coloured plushies. But what really grabs his attention is the strange man in the blue robes he’d met some weeks ago standing inside. 

That man gave him a weird feeling the first time they met, and seeing him now; the feeling hasn’t changed. There’s ice in the hollow of his bones and his stomach is doing jimmy flips. It’s screaming at him that he needs to pay attention, _this is very important. Extremely important._

He catches himself taking a step toward the kiosk and stops that movement immediately. The little man has now noticed him staring; a knowing smirk spreading across his features. Vince turns on his heel to leave when he hears it. 

“Vince?” 

Outside of the few words they exchanged when they met, he hasn’t spoken a word to the other man. He certainly hasn’t ever told him his name. So he is rightfully surprised to hear it lisped at him. 

Turning, he finds the man frowning at him, his tiny brow creasing in thought. Mysteriously, he comments, “Something’s troubling you.” 

Vince blinks at him. “Wha’?” 

The shaman rolls his eyes so hard it looks like they disappear for a moment. “Get in here you ballbag.” No mystery this time, only thinly veiled annoyance. 

There’s really no room to argue, not when the door seems to swing open of its own accord. 

From outside the camel kiosk looks deceptively small. Inside there’s what appears to be the makings of a small flat; a sofa and a chair opposite that, there’s even counter space with a microwave and a kettle over in the far corner. If he were to peek through the beaded curtain at the back he thinks he may just find a bed of some sort. 

_Who the bloody hell is this guy?_ His internal monologue screeches in a completely unflattering manner. 

There isn’t a chance to ask, really. The man just points at the sofa and says, “Sit.” 

Vince is so out of his depth that he just does. 

A warm cup of tea is pressed into his hands (he didn’t actually see it being made) and the blue clothed man sits directly opposite him. Then there’s silence. An electric kind of silence that crackles with unspoken possibility. Vince isn’t entirely sure why he willingly came in here, nor why he’s perfectly content to drink tea handed to him by a man that makes his inside voice screech in warning. But he’s not going to read too much into that. 

It’s a decent cuppa, if he’s honest.

Being stared at does put a slight damper on how nice the tea is, but he can manage. For a bit. He makes a point to avoid eye contact as he works on the milky beverage, instead observing the outlandish decorating style of the mini flat. 

There's bright colours on every surface; reds and blues and purples blending at the edges and creating a mural like effect on the place. It's almost like none of it is even _real._

Vince isn’t great at telling time so it always seems to fly over from his perspective, but he’s almost certain it’s been about five minutes of nothing being said. The stranger is still looking at him expectantly, like it's his responsibility to speak. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be filling this silence with, though. 

“Look, mate,” He blurts eventually, the eerie stillness of the other putting him on edge. “What exactly is supposed to be troubling me?” 

That blank face morphs into bewilderment for a moment; but it is fleeting. The mask falls back into place. He simply shrugs back at him. “I don’t know, but your aura’s like a Jackson Pollock painting.” 

He stares dumbly; there isn’t a single thing in that sentence that made a lick of sense to him.

The blue man rolls his eyes _again_ , luckily Vince is more than used to people doing that around him. “I’m just saying what I see.” 

Vince looks over his shoulder like the thing might physically be sitting there. “Which is what?” 

“That something is troubling you, idiot.” He gets a disapproving head shake directed at him this time, which is a welcome break from the eye rolling. “And you don’t even know what it is?”

“I don’t think so.” All he can offer is a gentle shrug.

The thing with Vince is that his own brain 'sorting office' often moves a bit too fast for him to keep up with. There’s just so much going on in there at any given moment. Fractured images, memories on replay like old films, a common phrase he doesn't know the meaning of. Things he's heard people say once. The jarring sound of a Hyena cackle and the muscle memory of sprinting through a humid jungle. Dreams and nightmares and imagined creatures. It’s a lot. Sometimes important things get lost in the noise and the poor sod in there trying to sort it all out ends up just piling abstract concepts into whatever box they'll fit into, so there's room for more miscellaneous drivel to spill in.

Which means, unhelpfully, if something is troubling him - it’s going to take a second for him to grasp it from the chaos. 

There’s plenty of things that it could be he supposes. But everything that comes to mind (namely the Howard conundrum) immediately feels rather inconsequential for what the other man is implying. It’s got to be something worse than that if this tiny weirdo can _see_ it on him like a signpost. 

“You’re bottling it up.” The weirdo says, “That’s not good for you.” 

“I’m not!” He looks down at his tea. It feels an awful lot like being scolded by a parental figure. “I just forgot whatever it is, thas’ all.”

From opposite him, there is a very large sigh from such a small man that Vince almost finds it funny. “Well, I’m supposed to do something about it - so if you could remember, that’d be helpful.” 

“You’re supposed to what?” Vince’s skin tingles. Static in the air. 

“Do something about your problem.” He insists, then pauses, frowns at his own words. “At least I think I am.” 

_Pay attention, this is important._

Vince stares at him, and then down at his tea again, and then around at the colourful wallpaper. It’s probably wishful thinking for him to hope the answer is laying in any of these places. The answer this man wants is in his head and he hasn't got the words to give it to him. 

The worst part is that he’s used to his life not making sense; his upbringing, his job, the things he and his best friend occasionally get up to. It’s all crazy. Yet this man is on a whole other level that startles him enough to feel out of place. 

“You alright?” 

“I think so.” He lies. 

“You sure? Your aura’s still all over the shop.” 

Vince is the one who rolls his eyes this time. His high tolerance level for insanity is being tested to breaking point. The now cold tea is set down on the table. He pushes himself to his feet. “Thanks, I think? But I'm supposed to be giving the squid his eye drops so… ” 

To his credit, the smaller man doesn’t seem in the least bit offended by this obvious excuse to leave. Doesn’t even move to see him out, just turns his head like a humanoid blue owl. Vince pauses in the doorway, looks over the room that feels too big and yet too small all at once; notices the nick nacks on every surface- crystals, pipes, bones, Vince even swears he can see a jar with something _alive_ in it. 

He finds himself asking, “What’s your name?” 

“Naboo.” The small man answers. 

“Naboo…” He bites his lip. “Do you know what Khaki Fever is?” 

_10\. I love everything you do  
_ _When you call me fucking dumb for the stupid shit I do_

Howard’s birthdays are a strange phenomenon. 

It would come around, Howard would get a whole year older, and depending on how he felt about the age he was turning Vince would be expected to react accordingly.

A prime example was Howard's thirteenth birthday. He didn’t like the number thirteen much, it was unlucky. Howard had vehemently insisted he was unlucky enough without his age being against him. But that hadn't been the biggest concern of a preteen Howard, he also knew he was reaching an age that came with a whole host of pre-programmed humour. Playful teasing from his family about hormones and moody behaviour was about to become commonplace. _The terrible teen years._

Vince knew enough about Howard’s family to understand that the word ‘playful’ wasn't the correct descriptor for how a lot of those interactions occurred. 

Howard’s always been susceptible to pressure, peer, familial, societal, or otherwise. He didn’t like entering the world of ‘teenager’ because it meant growing up. And growing up meant being subject to everyone’s expectations. Luckily at this age the worst he had to worry about was his school work and an occasional jibe about girlfriends. 

But thirteen was entering a new stage of life. A teen. Soon he’d be a young adult. Then an adult. Then he’d be dead. That was how Howard looked at life. 

Which meant a then ten year old Vince had a responsibility to do all he could to distract from the fact it was his birthday. That consisted of dragging his friend to the park with some empty jam jars and demanding they catch bugs. Howard could study them, like a proper academic, and Vince could pull faces through the glass and draw them in his notepad. They hadn't mentioned his birthday once. It was pretty genius. 

Alternatively; when Howard had turned sixteen it had been the biggest cause for celebration he had known up to that point of his life. Now being old enough to leave school and get a job, Howard was taking his first steps towards true independence from his family. He could be his own man now - two more years and he was an adult. He was living the teenage dream. 

That birthday they had pushed the boat out. Howard came to stay with Vince at his foster parents (he can’t remember which family it was at that time, but he remembers they were _smiley_ ) and they stayed up all night. The family bought candles and a cake for them. After dinner Vince had insisted on singing happy birthday - Howard hated it, the awkward bastard, but he'd thanked them anyway. 

He'd gotten him the best gift a thirteen year old could think of; a little key ring with a trumpet on it. Howard had loved it. Promised to use it all the time at his new job. 

Some birthdays were neither here nor there. In which case, their usual routine was to find something to do together - parties were out of the question, due to the kicking Howard got the last time he had attempted one (only a _tiny bit_ Vince’s fault) - typically it involves food and a record player. 

As long as he knew where Howard stood on the matter then Vince could always plan accordingly. 

This year, Howard turns twenty one. 

No, he hasn’t actually checked with the birthday boy how he feels about this age just yet, but he can't imagine anything being particularly wrong with it. Twenty one is a good age, a milestone age. He's pretty confident this is going to be a celebration year. 

As far as he's concerned it’s a brilliant excuse for an actual _night out_. A drinking session. Clubbing, they should definitely go clubbing. 

And it has nothing _at all_ to do with the fact that Vince turns eighteen _exactly_ seventeen days after Howard’s birthday. 

Vince prefers to approach his own birthdays with a kind of unfiltered enthusiasm that matches that of most young children on a sugar high. He doesn’t like to focus on the numbers part of the event, but that’s only because even at his age he is starting to feel like his youth is escaping him too quickly. Instead he prefers to hone in on the fact that he was brought into the world in the first place and that was clearly a blessing to be celebrated. 

His own birthdays are always an event that Howard begrudgingly humours - even his seventeenth, in the drafty keepers hut with a cupcake and a pair of sleeping bags - and this time should be no different. 

A joint celebration would be absolutely _genius,_ he thinks _._ The only probable hitch in this plan is Howard’s supposed distaste for clubs. 

Having never been to one (Vince is brave in a lot of places but sneaking into a nightclub while underage isn’t one of them - at least not unless _someone_ went with him) Vince only has Howard’s retelling of his night out with Leroy to go off of. 

He’d spent almost two weeks complaining about it. 

_“It was loud and sweaty and everyone was grinding on each other.”_

In Vince’s humble opinion that sounded like a decent way to spend your night. 

Point being, if he was going to pull this off then he would have to make sure that Howard would at least enjoy it in some way. Easy, because everything was more fun with Vince Noir around. He just had to make his friend see that. 

The first time he brings it up doesn’t go brilliantly. 

“Howard?” 

The man in question is a little busy on his hands and knees with his head stuck in a Guinea Pig hutch. Fossil wants them renovated or something. So, understandably, he doesn't look up - he does make a little hum of recognition that indicates to Vince he is listening. 

“What we gonna do for your birthday?” Vince asks from where he is sat (cross legged on top of the hutch Howard currently has his head in). 

“Hadn’t really thought about it.” Is the muffled response he gets. 

It’s not the worst thing to hear. Obviously this birthday isn't one Howard wants to avoid altogether; if he played his cards right Vince could get his way. “Well, I think I had an idea.” 

Howard makes another one of those humming noises, this one invites him to continue with his thought process. 

“Why don’t we go clubbing?” 

Vince sees the moment his words sink in. The crouched body below him goes still. Unnaturally still. Then, carefully, Howard extracts himself from inside the hutch to sit back on his heels and peer up at Vince like he’s just suggested they munch down on the guinea pigs rather than just redecorate their houses. 

He’s got sawdust caught in his curls, Vince notices, and for some inexplicable reason that freezes any placating he was about to attempt in his throat. He just stares. 

“ _Clubbing?”_ Howard asks eventually. 

The disgust in his tone shakes his brain loose; he stops staring at those little brown eyes and how they look quite warm in the soft spring sunshine (he definitely doesn’t look into that thought too much, not at all) and gathers himself enough to plaster on a charming smile. “Yeah.” 

“I’m not going clubbing.” He lays it out like it’s final and thankfully sticks his head back in the hutch like that will end the discussion. Vince's brain unclogs a bit. 

“Why not?” It’s a negotiation choice to put a slight whine into his tone. Howard can sometimes be swayed with a whine. “C’mon Howard, it’ll be fun!”

“I hate clubbing.” 

“Can you _actually_ hate something if you’ve only done it once.” 

“Vince!” Howard’s head makes a sharp reappearance. “I said no.” 

His lip is twitching under his moustache. It’s the first sign he’s about to lose his temper; preparing to bare his teeth in frustration like an animal. Vince has always said his friend is a little lupine in his appearance. Puppy-like grin and all, but his anger was equally as canine in its intensity. It's so rare they ever get to that level of disagreeing though that it sends an odd thrill through him. 

There’s a choice to make; between pushing the matter or letting it go. If he beats a retreat it will situate him in a better position for a second attempt later. 

But god he _wants_ to keep pushing. 

“Alright. Fine.” His arms cross over his chest and he pulls the best pout he can manage so Howard _knows_ this isn’t the end of this discussion. 

After a mumble that sounds like _‘you’re such a child’_ the man once more reinserts his head amongst sawdust. 

Not horrible for an initial attempt. It’s definitely positive that Howard didn't immediately dismiss the idea of doing _something_ for his birthday. It was only at the mention of a club that he got prickly. There was time to fix this. 

The second attempt goes much better. 

He leaves it two days. Two whole days of what he would personally call some of the best self control he’s ever exhibited. He’s vibrating out of his skin with all the excitable energy of an infant trying to keep a secret. He’s restless. Jittery legs bounce and his fingers tap and his teeth gnaw on his lip. Howard notices, of course he does, but in an equal display of restraint he refuses to comment. 

They exist in a stalemate; no one giving voice to the topic despite the fact they both clearly have plenty to say about it. 

Vince likes to think he probably could have pushed it to three days, but Howard snaps first. 

He gets cornered in the Reptile House, finds his back pressed against the Cobra tank. Howard rarely bothers to use his height as an advantage but he does now, the larger frame looms over him in a way he finds hard to ignore. 

“Are you high?” 

The question comes as such a shock he has to laugh. A raw cackle tears from his throat; this doesn't help matters. Seeing Howard's brow furrow in concern only forces more air from his lungs. What was initially just surprise is now hysterical laughter, and Howard watches on. 

“What you on about?” He demands, as soon as he’s able to pull in enough breath to do so. 

“Are you high?” Howard repeats. 

This time, Vince has the good grace to be offended by the insinuation. “Don’t be daft, Howard.” 

“Well something’s up with you.” He backs off a little. Vince finds he misses the closeness. “You’re wired like a Christmas tree.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Howard doesn't look remotely convinced but he retreats nonetheless. It's as much of a tactic as any of Vince's plays would be. He is calculating as he looks him over, lips pursed in thought. 

Then he's gone. Struts off and holds the door open so that the younger keeper can pass him by but Vince hesitates. The ball is in his court, he feels like there's a whole conversation going through looks alone. Howard raises one eyebrow at him, nods at the door, _coming?_

Vince narrows his eyes, tilts his head a fraction to the left, _where?_

One of Howard's shoulders lifts in a shrug; one side of his mouth quirks upwards, _does it matter?_

Vince ducks through the door ahead of his friend and waits until the man is at his shoulder before beginning to walk. As if by muscle memory their feet lead them back to the keepers hut - they almost certainly have other things to be doing right now. But that hardly matters. They make it almost all the way back in silence. Almost. 

Howard, like usual, is the one to break first. "I’m still not going clubbing with you.” 

Vince has to concentrate very hard on not tripping over his own feet in annoyance. This was foiling his plan. “I never even said anything!” 

“Didn’t have to.” Once they reach the hut, Howard repeats the same motion from earlier. Pulls the door open with one hand and motions Vince through it with the other. “You’ve got that look in your eye.” 

“Look?" Vince frowns at him, pops his hat onto the coat rack and drags fingers through his flattened hair. "What look?"

The kettle is flipped on, Howard watches him with unabashed mirth. “The _‘I know you said no before, but consider this..’_ look.” 

Gaping at him is the only reasonable response Vince can come up with. “That look doesn’t exist. You made that up.” 

“It’s your third most used look, little man.” 

Vince huffs at him. He throws himself down on the sofa a little harder than necessary. “Third? What’re the first two?” As he asks, he drops his head back against the arm. His eyes close against the sound of Howard pottering about in the small kitchen area. 

The whistle of the kettle and the dribble of hot water is almost as comforting as Howard's dulcet tones. 

“Well there's ‘ _You’re going to be mad, but remember I’m your best friend’,”_ Vince laughs a bit too hard at that one, unsure if it's because of the stark truth of it - or if it's because of course Howard has been cataloging his _looks_. He hears a spoon clink against ceramic. “And then there’s-” 

Everything's forced into silence. It's abrupt enough that Vince peeks his eyes open, finds Howard shaking his head at himself as he stares down at the tea he’s making. Eyes unfocused and a downward slant to his mouth. 

“Howard?” 

He startles and his features shutter over. There’s a smile pasted on his face as he struts over to hand Vince his mug. There are puppets out there with more convincing grins. “What is it, what’s the other look?”

“Self admiration.” Howard answers too easily to be anything other than a lie. Vince can be pretty dense but not so much that he misses the fact Howard isn’t telling him something. And it has to be something big. There's very little Howard wouldn't tell him when lamenting about Vince’s own behaviour. 

He could push, but with the thought of his clubbing plan at the forefront of his mind he doesn’t. He has to pick his battles and that one can be fought another day. 

Instead, he allows Howard to knock his feet off the sofa and drop to sit beside him as he asks, “Self admiration?'' Just the phrasing makes him chuckle, eyeing his friend from head to toe in a way that he knows will make him squirm. “That’s filthy 'oward.” 

“Now don’t be coy, sir.” The tone is all superiority, it makes Vince giddy to hear it. This is their game, this verbal sparring. This _he knows_ he can win at. “I’ve seen the way you look in the mirror. If you could seduce yourself, you would.” 

Vince snorts. “Yeah, but who wouldn’t?” 

“Plenty of people.” 

“You’re just jealous.” 

“Excuse me?” Howard actually _sputters_ with his indignation _._

“Nothing to be ashamed of Howard, lots of people want my face.” 

“ _Your_ face?” He scoffs so intensely that Vince is almost offended. _Almost._ “The geometric nightmare?” 

“You wot?” 

“I’ve met knives less sharp than your features.” 

“Well that’s what girls like.” 

“The risk of a papercut?” 

“Yeah." Vince raises a brow, challenging. "I’m risky.” 

“You’re mental, is what you are.” 

That one is left hanging in the air. Silence descends. They're locked in a staring match, daring the other one to break first. Their entire friendship seems to work like this, pushing one another to the edge and seeing who topples. Winding each other up almost constantly. _Who can really take the most?_

All in good fun, obviously. 

Howard sips at his tea casually. Vince blows on his but doesn’t bother to take a drink. He likes it to cool a bit, unlike his friend (who has a mouth like a dishpan and is impervious to the heat) drinks it piping hot. They're still gazing at each other. 

He manages to count to one hundred in his head before he can't take it anymore. “You’re gonna come clubbing with me.” He announces, finally lets his peepers shift away from Howard’s face. There’s a sigh from his side, but not a denial. “‘Cause I’m gonna go.” 

“I’m not just gonna follow you out like some sad puppy, Vince.” 

“Aren’t you?” He looks back, raises his eyebrows at him, teasing, but also making a point. Howard will. He always has. Just as Vince has always followed him. 

Where they are now is a result of their inability to be left behind by the other. 

So yes, Howard will come. 

The other man sighs again, brushes his hand over his face. “You’re not even legal for another three weeks- you won’t get in!” 

“Aw, c’mon Howard, have a little faith in me, yeah?” 

The fact he hasn’t actually figured out _how_ to get in yet is something he chooses not to mention. As long as he can get Howard to agree he’ll work the rest out on a whim. 

Having clearly hoped that argument would put an end to the discussion, there is a third sigh from Howard (it's about to become a personal record) and this one is followed by some incomprehensible grumbling. 

This is where Vince tactfully lays off. If he leaves it hanging just so, then Howard will be able to mull it over. He will weigh the pros and cons and eventually come back with a plan that is essentially Vince’s idea, but Howard feels like he had every control in making it. 

It works. 

“Fine. We can go, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” Vince nods, of course. “And if I hate it we’re coming home.” Again, Vince agrees. If he has anything to do with it, Howard won’t hate it. 

And he is too wrapped up in the joy of getting what he wants to consider just how easy it is for him to bend Howard to his will, and just exactly what that might mean. 

It’s not like the effect isn’t mutual, Howard does in fact know how to play Vince like a well tuned instrument. 

If he just cared to actually try. 

_11\. It would never work between us,  
_ _Never work between us,  
_ _And I'm glad we've got that straight_

They come to an agreement - Vince gets to pick the club, on the understanding he doesn’t choose wherever Howard went to last time, and Howard gets to pick the day. 

It sounds like a fair enough trade to Vince. 

On his actual birthday he adamantly insists he’d rather just stick with their new tradition of a night watch; Vince brings a cake and allows Howard to play some of his more tolerable jazz records. All in all it’s a perfectly pleasant evening. 

That’s when Howard comes to his decision. 

“What about next Saturday?” He says into the silence. 

Vince looks up from where he was tucking into an obscenely large slice of cake. Howard is peering at him from the sofa, eyes just visible over the book he’s reading. Having half expected him to put off choosing a date until it was eventually forgotten about, Vince is rightly overjoyed by the suggestion. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course!” 

“It’ll be a good midpoint, I think.” He explains, despite the fact he doesn’t need to - Vince rarely requires explanation from Howard. 

But it does make sense. That Saturday would be pretty much halfway between both of their birthdays - considering it was meant to be a joint celebration, that made it a sensible night to choose. 

Trust Howard to think of it like that. 

“Genius, Howard.” He gushes, realises he’s going to have to plan his outfit soon. “You can come get me at eight.” 

Howard nods his agreement and then goes back to his book. 

When the day arrives, Vince spends almost three hours getting dressed and still hasn’t gotten close to feeling _ready._

Some of it has to do with limited bathroom availability - a cramped foster house will do that - but the overall problem is something a lot more psychological and everything to do with the strange little shaman named Naboo. 

_“Naboo…” He bites his lip. “Do you know what Khaki Fever is?”_

_Naboo stares at him. His lip twitches in a way that Vince thinks might be amusement. “It’s when you fancy someone just ‘cause they wear a khaki uniform and know a lot of stuff about animals.” This does nothing to alleviate Vince’s confusion, and it must show. Because the smaller man continues. “Usually only happens when people go on safari or somethin’.”_

_Vince does an incredible impression of a guppy, opening and closing his mouth with no sound forthcoming._

_“Suppose it’s possible it can happen with a khaki wearing zookeeper.” Naboo wonders aloud. If Vince had been listening he might have lamented the fact that even this stranger seems to know exactly who this question is in reference too. “Does that help at all?”_

_He manages to make his head bob in what he hopes is a nod; he could just be spasming though. His ears are ringing. It was just a joke, Leroy had said. But then Howard, on his first day, that stupid comment. The worst part is he had basically figured all this out himself months ago. He_ knew _this was coming._

_Doesn't make it any less devastating to hear from someone else._

_People actually looked at him and thought that's what was happening. People think that he is hopelessly in love with Howard._

_And what terrifies him to his very core is that looking back at his own behaviour these past months - could he in all good faith deny it?_

_Frankly, he had rather enjoyed being able to ask his friend any number of questions and have them answered with such confidence and clarity. He’d_ liked _how confident Howard had been lately. How sure of himself and his knowledge. He’d admired him for how he treated the animals._

_Oh, shit._

_Naboo hisses a breath through his teeth; he’s staring at Vince like he’s a bomb about to go off. Or rather, he’s staring at the air surrounding Vince; his eyes darting frantically over whatever invisible force he can see. “Think that made it worse actually.”_

_Vince just barely manages to croak. “I’m gonna kill Leroy.” Before Naboo is indicating to the sofa once more and silently, Vince goes._

The rest of that session had been a hopeless attempt at convincing Naboo (and himself) that he definitely didn’t fancy Howard. Their relationship wasn’t like that. Not even close. They’d known each other since they were kids and he liked him - but they just _couldn’t_ click in that way 

Howard was awkward and socially inept and liked Jazz. Vince was outgoing and popular and he loved Electro. They were friends, best friends, Vince loved him platonically. But he didn’t _fancy_ him. 

It wasn’t even ‘cause he was a bloke. At very nearly eighteen, he was fairly sure that whatever happened to be in someone's pants did not matter to him. It was everything else about a person that attracted Vince. 

Vince fancied pretty people; people with bright smiles and brighter eyes. He appreciated the stereotypically attractive. Good hair and nice clothes. He fancied people that were on his level, a little bit simple, up for a laugh, liked dancing. His type was someone that thought _Weather Report_ was what you watched on the telly to find out if it was raining tomorrow. 

He liked people that had a fashion sense, thank you very much. 

None of that was Howard Moon. No, sir, as the man himself would say. 

So after talking around the topic for almost an hour Vince had come to the only logical explanation; this _Khaki Fever_ had just got the better of him while Howard was acting as his mentor. He didn’t fancy Howard, he just admired him in a leadership role. He didn’t love him, he was just finding his feet in a new job. That’s all. That's why Leroy had said it. He was _joking._

Now he knew, he could move on. 

Except it was seven forty five and Vince was still trying to put eyeliner on with a shaking hand.

He gives up eventually, storms out of the bathroom and barely hears one of the other foster kids yelling at him for how long he took - it takes everything in him not to stick his fingers up at them in frustration. 

In alignment with the fact it’s _Howard_ he’s going out with tonight, he has opted for a low key outfit. It will have the double effect of not making him stand out too much from his bland friend, _and_ also convincing his foster parents that he is _definitely not_ going to illegally sneak into a nightclub.

The grey jeans are actually cut for women, but they hug his hips perfectly. He pairs that with a fitted shirt (covered in designs he painted himself) and slings a leather jacket over his shoulders. Completing the look is the bandanna he ties in his hair and the various beaded bracelets he slips over his wrists. 

Not completely happy with it, but out of time, Vince barely manages to shove his feet into some silver Chelsea boots when his foster mother calls up the stairs that _“Your strange friend is waiting outside!”_

That does make him snicker to himself. Howard was of the opinion that this family didn’t like him very much and as such would avoid coming to the house as often as possible. 

He was right, of course, which somehow just made it that much funnier. 

It’s a blessing that Vince is a hair width away from adulthood, means he has the perk of not getting a talking to about behaving himself. In fact, neither parent even bothers to offer him more than a quick once over and a call of _‘have fun’_ before he’s charging out of the door and down the driveway to where Howard is hovering like the human manifestation of uncomfortable. 

“Alright?” He calls enthusiastically, coming to a stop at his friend's elbow. 

“He’s been staring at me for the past ten minutes.” Is his reply, squinting up at the window where, sure enough, Vince’s foster father is observing them with his arms folded. 

“That’s cause you look like a tiny eyed pervert when you loiter,” He loops his arm through Howard’s easily and pulls him from the view of the window. Protected now by the garden wall he takes a step back to approve the outfit. The other man knows exactly what he’s doing, rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop it. 

It's… Interesting. 

He's in corduroy trousers _._ But shockingly, it’s not _awful_. They’re a shade of deep green that when paired with a button-down shirt doesn’t look completely horrendous. It almost looks exactly like his work shirt, except that it’s in a shade of off white. It’s still a far cry from anything Vince would have dressed him in, but considering Howard did this - it’ll do.

For once, it feels like Vince wasn’t the only one trying to make an effort. 

“Bloody hell, Howard. Did you let someone dress you?” He blurts. Howard’s shoulders drop as he sighs.“I’m just sayin’!” Vince continues, stumbling as he is spun by his shoulder and nudged in the direction of the road. “I won’t be mad if you did, you look alright.” 

“ _Alright_?” 

“Yeah well, I’m here so.” 

Howard does chuckle a little at that. “We can’t all dress like androgynous groupies, Vince.” 

That joke comes up often enough that Vince doesn’t need to dignify it with a response other than what he hopes is a withering look. 

Frankly, he’s a tad more preoccupied with how much he’s been appreciating his friend's appearance. The cut of those trousers wasn’t exactly as tight as Vince’s, but it was a fraction more form fitting than the trousers Howard wore to work. Subtle enough that no one but someone (i.e. Vince) who sees him at work everyday is going to notice the change. In fact, seeing him outside of his uniform full stop was doing funny things to his insides. He’d almost forgotten that Howard could exist outside of the zoo. 

And maybe that was exactly the problem. 

Here they are, outside of the zoo; nothing has changed. 

They’re heading for the station, he notes. Incredible how he’s still following Howard’s lead despite this whole night having been his idea. Vince can’t focus around his thoughts. As intent as he is at sliding sly looks at his friend when he thinks he isn’t paying attention, he completely forgets to make conversation. 

Luckily silence has never bothered them. It’s a comfortable space they can exist in together without issue. The club is only a few stops away on the train and then a bit of a walk - Howard had plotted their route extensively - and Vince spends the journey fiddling with his hair and pretending to listen to Howard’s facts about the London Underground. He’s purposefully emptying his head of everything other than his determination to have fun. 

He’s not even in _fucking khaki_ but the fever didn’t break.

_12\. The truth and dare of the drug from the baseline  
_ _The desire that the voodoo gives to a weak mind  
_ _I want to know how to survive in the nightlife_

Actually getting into the place is easy. 

Vince had taken great care to pick somewhere that wouldn’t be complete agony for Howard. It wasn’t high profile at all, therefore unlikely to be too crowded and the music they played was the kind he would probably tolerate for more than an hour - might even enjoy a little.

See, Vince can be thoughtful. 

There’s barely any queue to get in and yet Howard still inserts himself in front of Vince; somewhere in his strange mind he probably thinks it will lower the chances of them getting asked for ID.

It sort of works. 

They demand to see Howard’s. 

Which, while greatly amusing for Vince, also happens to mean that when it’s his turn the bouncer takes one look at him as he is - peering up through his lashes, one hip cocked to the side - and lets him straight in with only a sheepish smile. 

“It’s unfair that you can do that.” Howard huffs. 

“Learn to dress better.”

Howard does say something in reply but Vince can barely hear him. 

The music is rattling in the hollow of his chest and he’s instantly in love with the sensation. There’s no thinking to be done in here. Everything is overwhelmed by sound and body heat and pure instinct. It’s the kind of thing he could get addicted to. 

He knows why Howard would hate it. Howard thinks music is a thing to be appreciated; that it should _mean_ something. Vince can see that too, in some cases. But there’s nothing to be appreciated in this rhythmic thumping. All this music means is _alcohol, sex, drugs_. The people dancing to it only add emphasis the point. 

This will not be the last time Vince Noir goes to a club, he knows that already. 

Howard dips close to him, brown curls brushing Vince’s cheek as he speaks. “Wait here, I’ll get you a drink.” 

Vince is fairly sure that’s the closest Howard has willingly been to him since they were children. He struggles to come up with a response other than to nod. He stays put at the edge of the dance floor and watches his friend retreating. It’s a good opportunity to repeat his head emptying ritual once more; fills it instead with the sights and sounds surrounding him. 

That’s when he notices the looks he’s getting. 

It’s no secret that Vince loves attention. Thrives on it. Practically needs it to survive. Noticing that girls and boys alike are appraising him like he’s their last meal is nothing short of intoxicating. He feels like a mouse in a den of cats but it doesn’t bother him. It’s doing the opposite of bothering him; he’s finding it thrilling. 

A hand lands on his shoulder at the same time as a drink is thrust beneath his nose and he nearly swoons until he realises it’s just Howard. He doesn’t ask what the drink is, he just accepts it and takes a hefty mouthful in the hopes of steadying his trembling hands. 

He’s definitely going to enjoy this. 

_13\. You've got something to say  
_ _Why don't you say it out loud  
_ _Instead of living in your head_

Someone’s arm is wrapped around his waist but he isn’t entirely certain who it is. 

He can hear them talking. Well, not hear them per se, but he can feel the vibration of their voice where his head is dropped low to their chest. It's reverberating through him and settling in the pit of his stomach. 

The first assumption he makes is that he’s being carried. But he soon realises that can’t be right because his legs are moving. He wouldn’t call it walking, whatever they were doing, but they were moving. As he becomes more aware of his limbs he notices that one arm is slung over someone’s shoulder, and the other fisted tightly in the rough material of their shirt. 

“‘Oward?” The voice starts up again, but trying to make sense of it is making his head hurt so he just accepts that it is in fact Howard who is pulling him along. 

It’s cold and he can’t hear music anymore. Logically, he knows they aren’t in the club, but trying to tell his more than a little intoxicated brain this is a feat. He just clings on as best he can. 

After an amount of time that his drunken self has trouble quantifying, he finds himself being pulled into the warm. No matter how far gone he is, he recognises the smell of where they are immediately. 

Keeper’s hut. 

He doesn’t question it though, because weirdly, this feels like the only place in the world he actually wants to be. 

Howard is talking to him. It takes gargantuan effort to swing his head up and make eye contact with the other man. His eyes are pinched even more than usual, mouth tight with concern. Vince does feel a little bad about this rather embarrassing display he’s putting on - couldn’t stop it if he wanted to though. 

“Do you feel sick?” Finally gets through the haze in his mind. God he hates how sober Howard sounds. A thought he must have said out loud because his friend huffs a laugh and replies, “That’s because you kept taking shots off girls, you little tart.” 

“Do you feel sick, Vince?” Howard repeats. He doesn't wasn't to guess how long it's been since the last time he asked. 

Vince hasn’t even decided to nod when his body does it for him. 

Good thing his best friend is a man of action who thrives on being not only a leader but a carer - Vince thinks it’s got a lot to do with him having no siblings - and easily starts to lead him to the shoddy bathroom in the back of the hut. 

Once they’re there, Howard uses gentle hands to lower Vince to the floor beside the toilet and hastens a retreat. He briefly wonders where he’s gone, but is too preoccupied tearing the bandanna from his hair and rubbing at his eyes with little care for his makeup. He wishes he could remember the point where he tipped from having fun into _completely hammered_ ; but it’s all a bit of a blank spot already. 

God he was going to be hungover tomorrow. 

He’s in the process of contemplating how likely he is to vomit, and what his friend would think of him if he did, when Howard reappears and Vince grins up at him without the coherence to mask his joy. “Y’alright?” 

This must be amusing to Howard in some capacity, because he chuckles. “Are _you_ alright?”

For some reason Vince thinks this question encompasses more than just his drunken state, and chooses to answer for his emotional well being as well. “Messy.” He grumbles. Being locked in a staring competition with the toilet bowl was holding most of his attention right now, but he just assumed Howard understood what he meant. 

“No different to usual then.” He jokes; this tells Vince he doesn’t know what he meant _at all._

Rolling his head on his neck, he looks up to his friend. The bathroom light surrounds him like a halo. He's his guardian Angel. He opens his mouth to say something, possibly a prayer, and his stomach lurches. Frankly, it’s a miracle he has the coordination to throw himself at the toilet but he hits his target pretty well. 

The last thing he is ever expecting in this situation is to feel Howard fingers in his hair; the digits as gentle as they had been the day he calmed the Llama. He’s careful to pull strands away from Vince’s face. There’s a murmur of apologies accompanying the touch and if he could, he’d thank him and tell him he didn’t need to be sorry, but he was too preoccupied emptying the contents of his stomach.

After a few minutes he’s left dry heaving, nothing left to come up. He spits into the bowl twice more, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder pulling him upright and pressing a glass of water into his shaking fingers. 

“Sip it, don’t take mouthfuls.” Howard must be a _little_ drunk too, despite his earlier thoughts, because there’s still a hand in his hair and it’s like the other man doesn't even know. Fingers are tangled in the soft strands at the nape of his neck, stroking and scratching in a soothing way. “Feel better after that?” 

“Mm.” He hums around his water. 

The care he’s receiving is top notch. So good in fact it leads him down a strange path of wondering how often Howard has been this drunk. If he’s _ever_ been this drunk. Experiencing it, it doesn’t feel like something Howard would ever do. Much too messy and uncontrollable for Howard’s liking. 

In the following silence Vince makes a mental promise that the next time they drink he is going to make sure Howard gets as drunk as humanly possible to re-balance their score. 

They sit shoulder to shoulder on the bathroom floor for an age. Brown eyes watching over him as he takes careful sips; so closely Vince feels himself blushing over it. When he’s polished off half a glass Howard takes it from him lest he drop it all over the floor. 

He feels about ready to take a little nap. 

“Vince?” 

Startled, Vince realises he has let his head drop onto Howard’s shoulder. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there. “S’rry.” He mumbles, moving to push himself up. 

“It’s alright.” Howard clears his throat; the awkward is dripping from him - dark like ink, Vince can feel it hitting his skin in thick droplets. “Probably be more comfortable on the sofa, though.” 

Vince’s traitorous mouth blurts, _“Highly_ doubt that.” before he can stop it. 

And yet, Howard doesn’t comment. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet before wrapping his strong arms (and the way he hoists Vince up like he’s made of paper attests to that statement) around Vince’s smaller body and lifting him to his unsteady feet. It barely takes anything for him to be directed to the worn leather sofa and deposited on top of it - every single cell in Vince’s drunk body cries out in joy at how willingly Howard is giving him contact.

Even if it is completely platonic and an act of care taking. He’ll take it. 

The second he sinks into the worn leather of the sofa it hits him just how tired he is. He is _exhausted._ Howard is still pottering around the small hut, but he can’t keep his eyes open much longer and lets them fall closed against the sounds. 

As if whatever power resides in the sky decided he hadn’t embarrassed himself enough tonight, Vince of course has to take it one step further before he is granted sleep. Howard very kindly drapes one of their sleeping bags over him; Vince reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder. He holds him in place, turns his head and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

“Goodnight, H’ward.” He mumbles. 

Whatever Howard’s reaction to that is, he doesn’t remain conscious long enough to witness it. 

_14\. One moment we're broken and then we're fine  
_ _Lost in the puzzle of the teenage mind_

Their joint birthday night out never gets mentioned again. 

Well, Howard mentions select parts of it - _very_ select parts - every chance he gets. 

Naturally, his utmost favourite thing to come out of the whole evening is the chance to paint himself as some sort of knight in shining Armour to a drunken damsel in distress. Which isn’t how Vince remembers it at all, the parts that he can _actually_ remember. 

The lone employee of his brain sorting office quite likes to wield certain fractured memories at him like weapons; edges sharp and uncomfortable against his temples. He recalls an instance of him, a few too many drinks deep, stupidly throwing his arms around Howard and snickering when he tensed up. Slurring things like _“Why do you never let me touch you?”_ and giggling - high pitched and effeminate - at whatever witty comeback Howard had come up with. 

He remembers Howard acting as an awkward support post when Vince had stumbled over, terrified and vulnerable, and said he wanted to go home. He hadn’t asked questions, he simply slipped into the role of responsible one and acted on behalf of both of them. Lucky, because Vince didn’t want to have to explain that he’d drunk way too much and when a pretty blonde thing with eyes the colour of emerald had propositioned him - he’d blurted out that he was here with his boyfriend. It all goes a bit black after that - other than the parts where Howard half-dragged him to the keepers hut and then suffered through the care taking process in lieu of being able to lecture him about alcohol consumption and moderation (he’d gotten the lecture the following morning though). 

Still, Vince lets him have his glory. It’s the lesser of all the evils Howard could choose to dredge up, after all. 

What they certainly do not talk about is everything that occurred once they got back to the zoo. Things said from behind the cover of inebriation and the actions brought out by lowered inhibitions. Neither of them even dares to ask what the other remembers - Vince doesn’t want to experience the harsh reality of rejection - both of them seem to rather pretend that it’s all blank. They silently agree that portion of the evening is not up for discussion, banter, nor further investigation. 

So Howard continues to use the free reign he has over the events in the nightclub; tells anyone who will listen (meaning practically no one) that Vince can’t handle his alcohol. Spins a tale about ludicrous shapes being pulled to obscure tunes. He may as well write a poem about his friend's naivety in the face of a pretty girl holding out tequila shots like a temptation - a serpent in their Eden the way he describes her. 

It’s all fair game, even Vince knows it. 

That doesn’t stop the hollow feeling in his chest every time Howard laughs about (at) him, though. 

Ten days after that outing and things seemed to be reaching a sense of normal again. The jokes become less frequent. Vince’s shame is tucking itself back into the mental box it came from to hopefully not emerge again for a very long time (Vince doesn’t _do_ feeling ashamed - it’s not him). He officially turns eighteen and Howard makes a comical offer of doing it all again knowing full well that Vince will say no. 

He goes the extra step, pulls a twisted expression and insists just the thought of alcohol makes him queasy. He’s pleased to see the act making Howard chuckle, a semi-relieved grin splitting his features. 

Instead, he expects to spend his birthday having a quiet night on watch. Their new normal. 

Before that shift can begin though, in a decision even he struggles to understand, he stops by to see Naboo. 

The smaller man likes to call it _‘Shaman Therapy’_ whenever Vince sulks through his doorway and flops onto his sofa for one of their chats. He however, much prefers to call it spending time with a friend in which he spills the contents of his muddled brain and hopes Naboo can help him make sense of it all. 

Naboo is a good listener. 

They’ve formed a pretty unlikely friendship since that first encounter. Despite any conversation they share being a little one sided, it seems to suit them just fine. The little shaman doesn’t much like talking about himself (and Vince has really tried on that front) instead prefers to press for more information from him. Which is perfect really, Vince likes to talk. So they find an equilibrium between them. A kind of understanding in which they both benefit; Naboo is still intent that he has a mission of some description that involves Vince and if Vince can help him achieve that by unloading his emotional baggage once in a while it’s a win win. 

On this particular visit though; Vince can’t seem to talk. 

“Don’t keep it in.” Naboo says eventually, breaking the stretch of silence. “You’ll pop like a bottle of champagne.” 

Vince still hesitates. Eyeing the tiny shaman from the corner of his eye. For what it’s worth the other man’s face is stoic as ever. It helps in a way, feeling like Naboo couldn't care less what he says. 

“Leroy left to go skiing in France last week,” He starts, knowing full well he is spilling absolute bullshit. “Invited me and everything but I said no. Stupid really, I love skiing, should’ve went,” Except he didn't want to run off to France for two weeks because he as scared of what he’d miss here. Scared that he’d miss Howard. “Doesn’t matter though. Probably wouldn’t have got time off anyway.” 

One of Naboo’s carefully shaped eyebrows is raised at him, and Vince knows for a fact that he is about as transparent as a window. 

He averts his gaze, but he can’t stop now that he’s started. 

“Fossil’s onto me about choosing something to specialise in. Not that it even matters, does it? Howard’s supposed to be head of Aviary but he still does everythin’ else anyway.” His throat feels a little bit tight. His own body rebelling against his obvious avoidance of the real problem. 

Vince clears his throat. Finishes lying to himself with, “And to top it all off, I think I'm falling a bit behind on my fashion.” 

He lets that hang in the space between them for a minute.

Utterly unconvinced (to be fair, it is pretty unbelievable that _Vince_ would fall behind on fashion trends) Naboo only sighs at him. One of those deep ones that must come from the bottom of his shoes how much air he expels. Vince can feel the weight of his own falsehoods clogging up his airways and the little room inside the camel kiosk is suddenly too stifling for him to stay. 

Usually, Naboo’s shaman therapy session would end without the other man making any comment at all. But for whatever reason as soon as Vince sits up and moves to leave, muttering _‘I better get going’_ , Naboo stops him by announcing. 

“You can’t fix it if you won’t say it out loud.” 

Vince allows himself only a second to process that before he storms out in a huff. 

What does Naboo want him to say?

Well, it’s quite obvious what he wants him to say, but having only come to the realisation himself quite recently it’s not something he is all that ready to confront in such explicit terms just yet. He can afford to take a few days to wrap his head around the whole thing before asking Naboo for his advice. 

It’s not exactly easy to admit you _definitely_ fancy the pants off your best mate. 

_15\. Now that we're on our own  
_ _We'll never be alone  
_ _If home is where the heart is then my heart's with you_

Howard has a day off. Shockingly. 

Apparently he accumulated so many holidays thanks to literally never going home, and Fossil was - quote - _“Sick of the sight of your twisted giraffe like body, please take a damn day off for once.”_ and therefore forces him into it. Really anything more than a day was asking a bit much, but for _one day_ he agreed not to come into work. 

It’s a brilliant day for Vince as much as it is annoying. 

On the one hand, Vince has been getting more and more independent in his work recently. He asks fewer questions of his friend, doesn’t hang off his every word as much, generally tries not to be joined to his hip. Instead, he's more likely to have already started their tasks for the day while Howard is still neck deep in his morning jazz trance. 

He can tell this saddens Howard a little bit; not being completely relied upon anymore. But a combination of his newfound adulthood (and a recent realisation of certain _personal feelings_ ) leaves him a bit reluctant to be in Howard’s shadow all the time lest he never find his way out of it. 

A whole shift by himself sounds like the perfect way to prove to everyone (see: himself) that he is more than capable of existing without his best friend propping him up. That this stupid crush is something inconsequential and will pass in it’s own time. 

On the other hand, it's just not as fun without his friend by his side. 

He spends all day feeling a little bit lost; to be honest. Typically seed distribution would come with a healthy dose of banter. Jokes about Techno Mouse and how Sugar the Goat has got her head stuck in the fence _again_. Even if either one of them got called on separate duties (usually Howard, he is technically the head of the Aviary) they would still find excuses to follow each other and provide much needed company while they did so. Vince often finds himself with several Rainbow Lorikeets on his shoulders while he watches his friend try to reposition their branches; running a colourful commentary along side the job.

Cleaning up monkey dung is just straight up depressing when you have to do it by yourself. 

When lunch rolls around, he isn’t quite sure he wants to spend it alone so he tries to find Naboo. Annoyingly, the Camel kiosk is closed, with chalky blue writing scrawled on it’s shutters. _Gone Venus Fishing_ it reads. 

The next best option is Bollo, he assumes, but while Vince loves animals (and has the ability to hold fascinating conversations with them) he isn’t sure he wants to take his cheese sandwich into a Monkey enclosure to eat. 

Alone in the keepers hut it is.

The funny thing about the hut, Vince has taken two years of employment to notice, is that none of the other keepers _ever_ use it. It’s exclusively Vince and Howard’s space; probably why Howard is comfortable enough to leave some of his personal stuff lying around in there. His typewriter and records and books strewn about the place as if he owns it. Even he has started adding to the personalisation of the place now that he thinks about it - there’s some of his doodles stuck on the fridge under magnets and a scarf or two hung over the back of a chair. Hats and jackets from the both of them all mixed up on the coat rack. 

It is nice to have an escape from work when they need it. A home away from home. 

Just makes it that much more daunting to have to go there presently and sit in silence. He feels like he’s missing something without his Northern berk hanging off his shoulder. Maybe he’d play one of the other man's records (if he could find one tolerable enough) in order to fill the empty air. Howard would never have to know he’d _willingly_ listened to it.

With that plan in mind, he goes. 

He almost has a heart attack when he swings the door open to find Howard perched on the sofa drinking tea. “Bloody hell!” he exclaims, gripping his chest to steady his beating heart. 

Howard just nods at him in greeting. “Alright?”

“No,” Vince snaps. “I’m not bloody alright. What you doin’ here?” 

Howard frowns at him over the rim of his mug. “Drinking tea?” 

“I can see that, you berk.” Moving into the room, Vince kicks the door shut behind him. “I meant what you doin’ at the zoo. Thought it was your day off?” 

“It is.” 

Vince stares at his friend, waiting for a further explanation. None is forthcoming. Howard isn’t even looking at him anymore. He’s flipping through one of his stupid jazz magazines with one hand, the glossy pages spread open on his lap, while he sips his tea with the other. He’s not in uniform, which rules out the explanation that he was called into work after all. Instead he’s in a disgustingly patterned shirt and a cardigan in a shade of brown that makes Vince nauseous to look at.

None of it makes sense. “What, couldn’t live without my company?” He _could_ believe that. Howard just got bored at home alone as Vince did at work alone.

Except Howard scoffs. “I was enjoying the peace and quiet actually.” 

“And yet you’re here.” Having made himself comfortable at the small table they had in the hut, Vince starts to dig into his lunch. “Might as well move in, Howard, you spend enough time here.” 

He expects a retort. Some sort of hilarious quip to come flying back at him, as is the way of their banter. But there’s nothing. Stony silence. Vince would go as far as to say it’s uncomfortable, the likes of it hasn’t been since he first tried to find out what khaki fever was. 

He frowns over at his friend, who is now actively pretending to read. They know each other well enough that Vince can tell Howard isn’t actually taking anything in off that page anymore. He’s just staring at the words. He’s playing dead conversationally, hoping Vince will back off. 

Rather, he decides to pick at the bones of this discussion like a word vulture. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever even seen where you live, you know.” He utters conversationally, sharp eyes flicking over Howard’s nervous form. The other man doesn’t react verbally, but his muscles tense, the magazine has its page flipped a little harder than necessary. “Weird that, innit?” 

Howard clears his throat, makes a point of flipping another page; there is no way he has finished reading the previous one. 

“Whereabouts _is_ your flat?” He presses relentlessly. Howard would give eventually. “Commute must be easy, you’re always here before me.” Not that it was hard to be here before Vince, who not only took forever to get ready, but also used an unreliable rail system to get here each day. “Rent good, is it?” 

Howard’s lip twitched in annoyance. He took a breath, and sighed through his nose- but still didn’t say a thing. Vince was on thin ice and he wanted nothing more than to stamp his feet until it cracked. 

“I’ll come over this weekend, yeah?” The jazz magazine is tossed aside. “I’ll bring Thai food and some records we can-” 

“Alright, Vince!” Howard snaps, then all at once deflating with another sigh. “You’ve made your point.” 

Vince gets a wave of satisfaction from being right; so overwhelming that he forgets he isn’t exactly sure what point he’s just made. 

Yes, he knows there’s something fishy going on here, but when it comes to putting two and two together - well he’d never been that good at maths. He can’t admit that though. Howard thinks he knows exactly what’s going on, he can’t undermine his success by admitting he’s still confused. 

Luckily, Howard’s sometimes as thick as he is. All he has to do is give him a _look_ (widen his eyes, raise his eyebrows, convey sympathetic curiosity) and the other man is spilling his guts. 

“It was only meant to be temporary,” He starts, staring down into the milky surface of his cold tea. “But I never really got around to finding anywhere else.” 

“Howard,” Vince practically gasps. Now he has successfully made four with his equation pieces, he lets his mouth drop open. “Looking for somewhere to _live_ isn’t something you _get around to_.” 

Howard glares at him. “You’re right Vince, and when exactly are you going to move out of the foster home?” 

Vince bites his lip. “I’ll get around to it?” 

The other man sweeps his hand at him, silently yelling _See!_ And okay, Vince kind of gets how it could happen. Suddenly thrust into adulthood and being told to pack up and ship out was a terrifying thing (even for Vince who embraced change head on) and he was putting it off for as long as he could get away with. 

But Howard? Howard had been dying to leave the oppressive prison of his family home since he learnt how to walk. They probably caught him toddling out of the gate on tiny baby legs often enough - he was a bit determined like that. Surely he would be the one out of the pair of them that would have everything together, have multiple flats lined up ready to move into. At eighteen, Howard had already been working at the zoo for some years. How had this happened? 

Howard _lived in the keepers hut._

Vince is still gaping at him. Howard is glaring defiantly back. 

“I knew no one would willingly spend that much time here.” Is what he settles on. 

Thankfully, Howard laughs. 

“So, you ever gonna move out?” He asks after a beat. 

This time, the other keeper rolls his eyes. “No, Vince, I thought I'd spend the rest of my life kipping on the floor of a wooden hut.” Vince snorts. “ _Yes_ , eventually I’m going to move out. Just gotta find the right place.” 

“Didn’t realise it was that hard picking somewhere to live.” 

“You haven’t done it yet.” 

Vince gnaws on his lower lip almost painfully, stares down at the food he hasn’t touched yet. Remembers slapping it together that morning in a home that won’t be his much longer. “Suppose I haven’t.” 

The air is still between them. 

Vince and Howard talk about a lot of things. About plots and schemes to catch phantom animal thieves, about the best method of putting bras on the chimps, and how likely they are to run a successful aquarium while Tony the Prawn keeps being a Crustacean creep. 

But it’s not very often they do this. Actually _talk_. 

There’s been some occasions, but not many.

The closest they get to a serious conversation still finds them taking digs at one another and baking the whole thing in soft banter. In a way it’s great, especially when the pair of them can be a little emotionally stunted; it means they can soften the blow of vulnerability with humour. 

“You’ll be alright.” Howard utters gently. When Vince looks up, his face a picture of disbelief, he finds Howard hovering at his shoulder. 

One of the hands at his side twitches. For a moment, Vince thinks he’s going to get some sort of physical contact. The hope is short lived, as fairly soon the other man is moving towards the kettle instead. 

“We could live together.” He says, and it is a classic example of his brain jumping ahead of the rest of his body. 

To his credit, Howard doesn’t immediately shoot the idea down. “Aren’t worried I’ll cramp your style?” 

“You already do that, Howard.” He teases but gets no reply. 

It isn’t until they both sit with a hot cuppa in each of their hands, Howard settled at the table beside him, Vince tries again. Need to have himself understood. “I’m serious, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“So… You think we should?” He had expected more of a fight. For Howard to want to maintain some careful sense of space between them. Vince has always been a clingy friend, and Howard has always appeared to put up with it as best possible. Living together might be a bit of a stretch though. 

But Howard simply shrugs. “In case you haven’t noticed, we practically already live together.” 

Which is true, in hindsight. They spend their lives at this zoo. More often than not they’re on night watch. They have shifts so often that Fossil has to force them into holidays. And throughout it, they were always here in the hut.

They might occasionally annoy the piss out of one another, but it was still a companionable kind of annoying the piss out of one another. 

“I suppose I should get out of my foster parents hair, shouldn't I?” 

Howard frowns at him over the rim of his cup. “We don’t have a place yet, Vince.” 

Vince just makes a point of looking around them. He nods first at their stacked sleeping bags in the corner, then at Howard’s typewriter, then at the assortment of hats hung on the coat rack, then at a mixed collection of their music stacked by the record player Howard owns. “I think we do.” 

Howard snorts at him, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“It’ll do,” He adds. “For now. While we look for somewhere proper. Just temporary, yeah?”

“Yeah. Temporary.” 

That agreed, they go back to sipping their tea. Howard steals some of Vince’s lunch, Vince halfheartedly picking at the scraps too. 

“Howard?” 

“Hmm?” 

“How come no one ever noticed you lived here?” 

Howard purses his lips, considers, and then replies, “Everyone thinks this place is closed for renovation.” 

Vince chokes on his tea, giggles spilling forth from his mouth. He stares at Howard with disbelief. “ _You_ told them that?” 

Smirking (smugly at that), Howard shrugs one shoulder. “Not necessarily. It _was_ closed for renovation- they added the bathrooms after a _drenching_ incident- but then they finished. I was told to pass on the message and I just…” 

“Never got around to it?”

Chuckling, Howard ducks his head. Vince thinks he sees a soft blush on his cheeks. “Yeah, something like that.” 

“Wow, Howard. You’re a rule breaker.” Vince says, faux serious. “I’m not sure I can live with you anymore. You might be a bad influence.” 

“Shut up, you tit.” 

Vince laughs so hard he almost passes out; and he doesn’t think at all about how much his heart wants to burst from his chest with affection for his best friend. 

_16\. See I'm a fucking basket-case  
_ _Until I'm able to see your face  
_ _You saved me from myself_

Moving into the keepers hut takes very little effort on Vince’s behalf. He doesn’t own much, besides the literal mountain of clothes that Howard complains is going to take up most of their limited space. 

Naturally, his foster parents are sad to see him go, but Vince knows on some level they will be relieved to have an empty bedroom with which to help another child. He departs with empty promises to stay in touch; he hadn’t really lived there long enough to form a long lasting bond. 

In terms of adjustment period, there isn’t one at all. 

Vince slots in like he has always been there; he supposes he always has. It’s not unusual for them to sleep in close quarters. Howard is more than practiced at banging on the bathroom door to hurry his friend along. Vince knows that Howard scats to himself without realising sometimes. Howard seems unbothered by Vince’s regular solo concerts. All in all, being best mates since they were little kids means they’re well equipped to share a living space. They already know each other’s annoying habits. 

They work around one another in the morning like a well oiled machine; Howard starts the tea while Vince drags himself from sleep, a steaming cup ready to go by the time he clambers out of his cocoon. Vince begrudgingly cleans up their mugs while Howard showers and dresses, he pops some toast in for his friend while he chomps on a banana. By the time Howard slides out of the bathroom, Vince slides in, and Howard’s toast pops in a display of perfect timing. 

Their night time routine operates in a similar manner. Vince doesn't bat an eye at his friend's need to leave the lamp on all hours of the night so he can read; while the older boy eventually gets used to the fact Vince's chosen sleepwear is basically just his pants. Howard knows Vince occasionally has nightmares, Vince knows Howard sometimes struggles to sleep at all. They make great company for each other in the early hours of the morning. 

For months this goes on. They live in almost perfect harmony. Obviously not completely perfect, because they still have a tendency to wind each other up. They bicker over who gets to play their music or who’s turn it is to wash up. Howard gripes at Vince for his poor diet (sweets aren’t a meal, apparently) and Vince similarly nags Howard that it won’t kill him to wash his hair a little more. 

Vince does his utter best to not overly romanticise every little action. Forces himself not to watch Howard as he sleeps. Fights to ignore how Northern he sounds when he first wakes up in the morning and how _adorable_ his sleep rumpled curls are. Pointedly doe not let butterflies bloom in his tummy when its three o'clock in the morning and an exhausted Howard let's him roll his sleeping bag a bit closer while they exchange half-awake conversation. 

It’s a _real_ test of his self control to be in such close quarters with someone who (Vince is starting to realise) is actually pretty attractive. 

He's no idea how he hasn't noticed it before. Or perhaps he had, subconsciously. It's like a high vis jacket now, though. Howard is ruggedly handsome; a bit rough around the edges but it works for him. Having always had a soft spot for his wolfish grin it floors him any time it sneaks across his features now. It's other things too, things he _definitely_ hadn't looked for before. Broad shoulders. Big hands. The sheer height of him; even in boots Vince has to tip his head back to make eye contact and he _loves it._

No one will ever know the torture of keeping adolescent hormones under control as intimately as Vince; who on one occasion accidentally strolls right into the bathroom before Howard has the chance to scramble a towel around himself.

All he can do is sincerely hope Howard doesn't question the length of his showers these days. 

But mostly, it’s good. It’s amazing. It’s _home_. 

Then Vince gets sick, badly sick.

He’d been feeling a bit funny for most of the day. The inside of his skull felt tight and yet wobbly all at once; a little like when you stand up too fast. His joints ached in a way they shouldn’t at eighteen, movement was a battle. To top it off was the shivering. He couldn’t stop shivering, despite the fact pulling his jacket around himself made him sweat. Overall, he felt a little like he’d been put through the ringer a few times over. 

Howard had confirmed he felt a little warm. Pressing the back of his hand to Vince’s forehead and frowning at him. In the end though, he chose to blame it on the fact he’d been to the pub with Leroy the night before. _“We both know you can’t handle booze.”_

So they had both brushed it off as a hangover and went about their night. 

Vince manages to swallow down a few liquorice bootlaces before his stomach protests, and decides to settle into his sleeping bag earlier than usual. He snuggles down; Howard still awake and likely to be for some time. His chin propped in his hand, reading a book with a name Vince can’t pronounce, he knows tonight is going to be a sleepless one for him. “Night H’ward.” He utters through a yawn.

He hears a gentle, “Feel better, little man.” as his head hits the pillow and he’s gone. 

He awoke what feels like minutes later; except that can’t be right because Howard’s curled asleep now, his soft snores filling the air. There isn’t even time for him to work out how much later it is because there’s a wave of heat that rushes over him, his stomach rolls. He’s up on his feet and crashing into the bathroom before the decision to do so even registers. 

In a moment very reminiscent of the distant memory of their night out, Vince is throwing up into the toilet. He didn’t have much on his stomach anyway, so there isn’t much to come up, but that doesn’t stop his body trying. He dry heaves for an indeterminate amount of time before his stomach finally gives up. 

He reaches for the flush with a trembling hand. His whole body is shaking, muscles trying their best to vibrate out of their skin prison. Head spinning, he drops his arse to the floor and pulls his knees to his chest. 

The bathroom light flickers on; a noise tears from his throat that feels like a sob and the light is flicked off once again. 

With his face tucked into his knees, the world around him might as well not exist. He feels a little like he’s gone to another existence where everything is a little swimmy. The hands that urge his head upwards (knuckles tucked under his chin) are cool; a palm presses to his forehead - he knows it can only be Howard - yet he still finds himself grunting and grumbling his annoyance. 

He’s hot, he thinks. He thinks he thinks. The brain tank is a little bit like a bowl of blue custard right now. Thick and strange. 

“‘M dying.” He informs Howard. He doesn’t open his eyes, just drops his head forward again. Bony knees press into his head and it feels grounding. “Proper dyin’.” 

“You’re not.” Howard says it like it’s a promise, but Vince thinks he must be lying. No one feels like this and survives. 

What he wants to say is _‘Something is wrong; I feel hot and cold. Reality is revolving, I’m not sure where I am or who you are. I’m confused. I’m scared. I think I might need to be sick again. My bones are jelly. What’s happening? Will I be okay?’_

What comes out of his mouth is a broken whimper. 

Time becomes a bit funny for him after that. 

Howard pulls him to his feet with a sure and strong grip and maneuvers him to the sofa; Vince can’t actually _feel_ his legs, so he just has to trust they’re there. He babbles nonsense the entire journey. He thinks it must be nonsense, because the bit that connects his brain and his mouth is broken and he can’t quite be sure _what_ he’s saying, just that his lips are moving and noise is coming out. 

When next he is aware, his face is pressed into the scratchy surface of a pillow. His whole body _aches._ There’s no real way for him to tell if he is even awake in the way sounds distort around him. He guesses he must be because he can hear voices. 

Though, that means nothing to Vince Noir, who hears voices in the form of animals talking everyday; regardless of whether he’s listening for them. 

One is instantly recognisable as Howard. Even in the throes of fever he’d recognise that low northern lull Howard calls a voice. The other is difficult to place though, it's soft, wispy; reminds him of blue smoke and crystal balls. Behind his eyelids stars dance and he thinks that now he must be dreaming. 

The stars flash different colours and try to coax him away with their singing. He isn’t sure if he really wants to follow them, but he does. 

Someone’s touching him. It brings him a little further into consciousness. Time must have passed again, because there’s no voices anymore. Just hesitant fingers on his face, his arms, his sides. 

It takes a moment, but he comes to the conclusion he’s sat up. Propped against the back of the sofa like a broken doll; there’s something pressed to his mouth and on reflex he parts his lips. 

Tasting water is _genius_ and he gulps at it like a dying man, only to have it pulled away from him again after a few swallows. It takes monumental effort to moan his annoyance, and he gets a chuckle in response. The logical side of his brain (compromised as it is, still functioning) knows this is Howard. Though whatever is causing his fever is currently in the driver's seat, thus he can only hear the twisted laughter of Gydara and Tzova, the Hyena sisters from his childhood. 

Unable to pry his eyes open and confirm that it is in fact his friend sitting beside him, Vince twists his face in disgust and attempts to put as much distance between himself and his dreamt up Hyena enemies as possible. 

The chuckling stops, morphs into distorted words, and he’s being laid down once more. 

Vince finds himself back in the jungle for the first time since he was six. Except it’s not quite the same as he remembers it. The grass beneath his feet is blood red and the trees hiss at him as he runs by. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s running; only that if he stops something bad will happen. Roots and vines snake along by his bare feet and try to ensnare him, he begs them to stop but they won’t. The worst thing is the silence. He passes a group of young elephants and when he asks them for help they stare at him blankly. The same thing happens with an old serpent. Then Jahooli, an old friend, only stares at him with no comprehension in their aged face.

None of them understand him and he in turn, can’t understand them. Communication severed, he’s alone. 

Whatever is chasing him grunts and growls as it gets closer; he can’t see it but he can _feel_ it like a pressure in his chest. He trips. A grasping length of vine spits at him as it wraps around his ankle and tugs. Whatever it is; it’s here. It’s got him. He’s lost. 

He opens his eyes. 

Heart hammering in his chest, it takes a moment to convince himself this is the real world. Really, can he be sure this _is_ the real world? It’s all a bit topsy turvy after the past however long he has spent in the limbo of his own consciousness. Trapped in dreams and hallucinations, a prisoner to his own overactive imagination, he’s a little scared this is just another elaborate pretend world. 

It’s the first time he’s had the awareness to ponder such a thing, he supposes, which must be a good sign. 

That, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are _actually_ open this time. They’re dry, scratchy every time he blinks. It makes him wonder exactly how long he’d been under, lost to the current of his illness. 

He’d have to ask Howard. 

Howard. 

“H’wrd?” It comes out as more of a rasp than he’d like, so much so his face twists in disgust at the sound of it. 

“Vince?” A testimony to his limited perception; Howard is sat on the floor by Vince’s feet and he hadn’t noticed until now. Back pressed to the sofa as if he was too scared to venture further than that, he twists his head to look up at the younger man. “You’re awake.” 

“Am I?” Genuine though the question may be, it makes the pair of them snicker gently. 

Howard seems to jolt into action then, he holds a finger up as if indicating Vince should wait where he is (as if he was about to dash off) and hurries to the kitchen. He returns quickly, pressing a glass of water into Vince’s hands. Grips his shoulders and helps him into a sitting position; the feeling is familiar, and he remembers a vague sense of this happening before. 

Most people would likely begin by asking what had happened, or indeed what day it was, after spending some length of time on a fever trip to the ninth dimension of weird. Vince is not most people, though, and instead asks, “Do I look a mess?” 

The force of which Howard rolls his eyes looks painful. Beneath that, though, there is clear relief. “A bit.” He answers, making a show of inspecting him before adding, “A lot actually.” 

If he’d had the energy, Vince would have gone on to lament the tragedy of this, but he didn’t. So he simply exhaled a sigh and brought the cup to his mouth to sip greedily at the water. 

As it empties, he presents it to Howard for more. He shakes his head though. “See if you can keep that down first.” He instructs, responsible as ever. 

There’s no effort in him to argue; Vince lets him take the glass away from him and settles himself in his nest of sleeping bags. Despite being awake for the first time in a while he is exhausted already. He doesn’t want to sleep though, fears what will be waiting for him behind his eyes. 

Since he has the opportunity, he takes stock. All his limbs are still present, though he's not sure where they would have gone while he slept. He has been bundled in his own sleeping bag, but his head was resting on Howard's pillow. He's still in the pajamas he remembers putting on to go to bed in that night except… 

“Howard, where’s my shirt?” 

Howard, having resumed his watchful position on the floor beside Vince, has the decency to look _very uncomfortable_ at this question. “You were hot. That is- with the fever. Naboo said even though you were shivering I had to keep you cool so…” 

_Naboo._ That must have been the mystery voice he was sure he’d heard at some point. It made sense, Naboo was so many things- doctor was probably another occupation on the list. Didn’t mean he was going to let the opportunity to wind Howard up pass by. “So you stripped me?” 

“I- No!” Howard’s face went an adorable shade of pink. “I was trying to help.” 

And it makes his heart ache, how small Howard sounds in that moment. It wasn’t fun for him to be trapped in a fever, but he imagines it might have been just as bad from the other side. Yet here he was taking the piss. 

“I know.” He mutters, dropping his gaze to the other’s hunched form on the floor. “Thank you.” 

“S’alright.” 

“How long ‘s it been?” 

Only now will Howard look at him again, having moved away from the more awkward topic of undressing he seems to perk up. “Two days. You’re lucky you woke up tonight, any longer I would’ve been carting you to a doctor.” 

Two days feels like a long time to not have memories of. It’s weird, he thinks, because it didn’t feel like that long at all to him. “Feels like I just had a little sleepie.” 

Howard snorts. “You did, sort of. Just lay there most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” He breathes, intrigued. “What was I doin’ the rest of the time, ‘cause it felt like I weren’t really here.”

Howard does a few things when he’s anxious, twists his hands together, avoids eye contact, presses his lips together into a thin line, shrugs one shoulder in a false depiction of carelessness. They used to appear at school when he was worried about what he had to say would get him in trouble. He still does one or more when he’s talking to women. He almost always displays them when any authority figure is involved. 

So when all of these things happen in succession Vince knows he’s mentally weighing up what to say.

“You talked a bit, mostly gibberish- but that’s nothing different.” Vince doesn’t have the energy to kick him, or throw anything, so he settles for a meek ‘hey’ to express his affront. Howard just smirks at him. 

“Thought you woke up once how much you were rambling.” He continues eventually. His tone is cheery enough, but the smile on his face is more like a grimace. Almost sad. “Kept going on and on about hyena’s, though. Reckon you thought I was one.” 

This sounds vaguely familiar to him. In the same way one might remember a memory from their childhood; hazy and mostly built around what other people tell you happened. “Hmm, I did. The sisters.” He agrees. 

“Haven’t heard you talk about them in years.” Howard muses. Already knowing most of Vince’s childhood tales, remembers those villains well. 

“Try not to think about them.” Not that it always works. He has nightmares for a reason. 

He looks like he’s going to say something. Those tiny eyes flicking over him, tight with concern, and not just for the illness this time. He must think better of it, though, instead diverting the topic to something safer. Something less personal. “Fever’s broken now. I’ll get you some more water and if you’re still coherent in a bit we can try food.” 

He defer's to Howard’s care taking easily. “Okay.” 

Howard sets about getting another glass. Vince's tired eyes remain locked on him. He’s in his uniform, he notices. Coupled with the fact that it’s dark outside, he supposes that Howard is likely supposed to be on watch right now. 

A thought occurs to him. “Howard, does Fossil know I was sick?” 

The other man shakes his head, passing the cup to Vince for him to sip at again. This time, he settles in the empty space by Vince’s side. “We made sure he didn’t find out.” 

“We?” 

“Naboo and Joey Moose helped a bit- likes you, Joey does.” Howard raises his eyebrows in a tease. 

“Everybody likes me.” He points out. 

"Well yeah," Howard is resigned to this fact, shrugs it off. "Come with a harem, you do." 

“Shut up.” Polishing off his second glass, Vince once again hands it off to his friend. “So you what, just told him I was busy or something?” 

Another one of those careless shrugs, that actually means he cares quite a bit. “Whenever he asked we just sent him on a goose chase. You know what he’s like.” And he did. Bob Fossil was very easily confused. “I did all of your jobs when I could, or I got Joey to- I’m not really good at Aquarium. Kept an eye on you in between.” 

His stomach lurches again, but it isn’t in a way that makes him feel sick. It’s a completely different kind of fever making itself known again. 

Howard spent the past two days not only looking after him (which is in itself is a very nice gesture) but had also been picking up the slack of his job and enlisting the help of others so that neither Vince nor his animal charges suffered. 

His throat felt tight and he closed his eyes against the prickling sensation. 

He was not going to cry in front of Howard, no matter how out of sorts he was. 

“Like I say, you mostly just slept…” Howard finishes lamely. He clears his throat, uncomfortable. 

The man was strangely selective about his boasting. He would frequently and loudly do it about non-sensitive situations; adventures and mishaps. He greatly disliked bragging about acts of a genuine nature though. Those things (Like taking care of your rather sick best friend) weren’t for any other reason than Howard was a good man. Thus, he struggled to talk about it, because he didn’t do it with the idea in mind that he’d get to tell the story one day. He did it out of kindness. 

There was an urge to lean over and hug his friend. He wanted to pull him into an embrace, tuck his face into his shoulder, and thank him. Not just for the past two days but their whole friendship- the decade of taking care of one another. Vince might be adamantly telling himself he isn’t _in_ love with Howard, but he does love him. A lot. And maybe it’s the illness making him extra emotional but he wants to tell him. 

He doesn’t though. 

Howard is funny about contact as it is, plus he is still sick. So instead, in a rather anticlimactic move, Vince tips his head against Howard’s shoulder and mutters. “Cheers, Howard.” 

The other man tenses, takes a deep breath, and gently (awkwardly) pats Vince’s knee. “It’s alright, little man.” 

Vince wants to believe him, but nothing feels alright now.

_17\. I saw you standing there, and I knew  
_ _I'm done for, it's over, I'm through_

When Mrs Gideon starts at the zoo, no one could be happier about it than Vince. 

They had been hideously understaffed pretty much since the day _he_ started. And while he didn’t mind helping out in Reptiles every now and then (on top of his duties in Aquarium _and_ helping Howard on Aviary _and_ both of them helping in Primates) he had to draw the line at assisting in the Cobra lounge. Vince didn’t get on well with serpents, and everyone knew it. 

So a new head of reptiles was just what the doctor ordered as far as he was concerned. 

Plus, Mrs Gideon was actually quite a nice lady. She arrives with good references and is a lot more competent with animals than most of their other keepers, that’s for sure. 

The only thing that does rub him the wrong way about the whole process is the fact she can be a bit intense with her niceness. 

For whatever reason Mrs Gideon seems to think Vince is the prodigal son of zookeeping (and alright, yeah, he reckons she might be into something there) which leads her to displaying a kind of open admiration that he’d _normally_ welcome from people. He doesn’t welcome it though, finds he can't even if he wanted to. Not at this point in his life when his focus is wholly elsewhere and her attention isn't the one he so badly wants. 

So he avoids her when she seeks him out to ask for favours, or his opinion, or just to generally have a little chat. When she does catch him he almost always engages her with his most charming smile - because he is a people pleaser at heart. 

He complains to Howard about it every opportunity he gets. Except, Howard hasn’t actually met her yet, much too busy with some bitch work Fossil has him doing (something involving little blue pants- he’s heard) and the other keeper is convinced Vince is wound up over nothing. 

“I honestly can’t believe what I’m hearing from you.” Howard laughs at him over their lunch one day. “Since when have you _not_ wanted attention.”

 _Since I realised no one else's makes me feel the way yours does,_ Vince thinks. What he says out loud is. “It’s stiflin’, Howard.” He scrunches his face up in distaste. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like.” 

The other man just shakes his head at him, then nodding at his bag of sweets. “Eat your lunch, you drama queen.”

As much as Howard thinks he is being a little silly about the whole thing, he does promise to have a word if it really bothers him; which it does. Vince is comforted going into the next few days with the knowledge that his friend is at his back. 

Of course, he forgets to factor in that Howard is _Howard_. 

He meets her for the first time a whole week after she was first hired. Vince still making a conscious effort to avoid the woman, since he knew that she’d want his opinion on why the Corn Snake wasn’t eating at the moment. As a result, he’d stuck to Howard’s side more than usual. The man acted as a natural deterrent to women. 

“Vince!” 

The call comes as they settle on their usual bench with a cup of tea each. He immediately pulls the brim of his hat over his eyes. Mutters, “Oh god.” He thinks he hears Howard laughing at him. 

“Vince,” She calls again, now a lot closer. Howard makes a strange noise beside him, but doesn’t say anything. _Traitor._

“Morning, Mrs Gideon.” He forces out, smiling. 

“Morning.” She smiles pleasantly at him. “I was wondering, you worked with reptiles a lot before I arrived, yes?” Vince nods, a smile on his face portraying him as a lot more patient than he actually feels. “Only the corn snake isn’t taking his food and you must know him better than me, do you think you can help?” 

“Yeah…” Howard still hasn’t bothered to step in, like he said he would, so Vince thinks on his feet. “Thing is, I actually promised Howard I’d help him today - they’ve got a bit of a Parrot situation.” 

Mrs Gideon frowns at him. “Who?”

“Howard.” He uses his thumb to indicate the man sat beside him. 

“Oh, hello.” It’s as if Howard hadn’t even been there and she’s startled by his presence. But the deterring works, suddenly she seems to want to be anywhere but near the pair of them. “Alright, well, do you think you can help after?” 

“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs Gideon.” 

This is good enough for her. “Thank you, Vince!” She gushes. “I’ll see you later. Nice to meet you…” She gapes at them, eyes darting between the two men, Vince realises she’s forgotten Howard’s name already. 

“Howard.” It’s the man himself that says it, and he sounds like he's got sandpaper for a voice box. 

"Yes." is all she says before she waves politely and scuttles off in the direction of the Reptile House once more. 

"What was that, you absolute berk!" Vince demands the second she's out of sight, rounding on his friend. "You were supposed to help. _'I'll have a word'_ you said. Now I'm gonna have to talk to the Corn Snake, aren't I?" 

Except Howard isn't listening. He's staring off after the woman that's just left them behind. 

“Howard?” He waves his hand in front of the other man's face. Snaps his fingers for good measure. Nothing. 

He very briefly considers singing the Pony Song that sometimes pulls Mr Fossil out of his breakdowns; but he knows he wouldn’t be able to execute it as well as Howard does and butchering it might just trigger some sort of intense meltdown. 

The next best option is to clap his hand to the man’s cheek. 

It immediately backfires as he finds himself soaked and burning; Howard having spilled his tea all over the both of them in the shock of being pulled from his trance. 

“What you doing?” He yells. 

“ _Me?_ ” Vince screeches back; springing to his feet in the hopes of salvaging his trousers. “I’m not the one throwing beverages about, you lunatic.” 

“I told you not to _ever_ do that to me.” Howard is similarly wiping himself down with his sleeves. 

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“ _Anything_ besides that.” Anyone else would be worried that Howard was genuinely angry; his face red and voice raised as it was, but Vince knew better. You couldn't mistake Howard's real anger for anything - it was dark and intense and a little _thrilling_. This was on the right path to it, this annoyance. This was a dog raising its hackles before it sank its teeth into your flesh. 

There’s an ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach; Vince could (and very much wants to) push this further. 

“Nah, you’d checked out,” He accuses easily. “Soon as a woman gets within ten feet of you, you’re hopeless.” 

“That’s not true!”

“‘Course it is! Your jaw’s on the floor. Staring after ‘er like a tiny eyed pervert.” 

Howard’s face is still red, but Vince suspects it’s for a whole other reason now. “Shut up.” 

The laughter bubbles up from him before he can stop it. It’s a little cruel. He knows because he doesn’t feel like he’s laughing _with_ Howard, he’s laughing at him. It’s only made worse when his friend turns his face away. Like Vince, has noticed the transition from teasing to genuine frustration. 

And it is frustration. 

The worst part is, he knows it isn’t even about the stupid corn Snake. He’ll talk to it if he has to and deal with the pressure of people watching him use his gift. It won’t kill him, he’ll cope. It was _never_ about the corn snake. 

It was about the way Howard falls for every woman that shows him the slightest bit of attention. It’s been like that since school, and Vince is always, _always,_ left behind until he is inevitably required to pick up the pieces. 

But now (and it might have taken several long years for Vince to figure this out) now it’s different because it hurts. Gideon hasn’t said ten words and Howard is starting down a path of unrequited attention when…

… When Vince is right here. 

This is probably what a light bulb moment feels like to most people. To Vince, it feels like most of his brain cells throwing their arms in the air and shouting _finally!_ There’s going to be an office party later, he thinks (his brain upgraded from frantic sorting office to trendy space some time ago) with lots of booze. 

Before that though, he has to fix what he’s just ruined. 

“Howard-”

“No it’s fine.” Howard cuts him off with a tight smile; he looks up but doesn’t meet his eyes. “I get it. I’m pathetic. Better than being an Electro tart, though.” He leaves that one behind as he saunters off, taking his empty cup with him. 

Truthfully, it was quite mild in comparison to what he expected to be called (and has been called in past arguments). He wouldn’t deny that it stung, though, especially in light of his personal realisations. 

Before he knows what he’s doing his feet start carrying him off in the direction of Naboo’s kiosk. He purposely ignores the blue chalk on the closed shutters, the one that deems the shaman busy. Just goes around the back and swings the door open; finds Naboo alone with a pipe in his mouth. The man looks at him, expecting.

"I don't fancy him." He announces without context. Naboo looks like he's about to tell him he's in denial, opens his mouth but Vince cuts him off. "I don't _just_ fancy him." His voice wobbles. His head spins. "I'm in love with him."

Naboo clicks his mouth shut sharply, Vince thinks he sees pity behind that careful constructed mask of indifference. 

He claps a hand to his mouth, chokes on his own emotions. “I’m in love with Howard.” 

_18\. Some boys are filling, some boys are filling the hole  
_ _Some boys are sleeping, some boys are sleeping alone  
_ _Some boys don't know how to love_

Naboo isn’t really that much help, in the end. 

"I thought you figured that out ages ago?" He asks, voice monotone as ever. 

Vince shakes his head insistently. " _No._ No we figured out I might fancy him a bit but… But this is- Christ!" He thinks he might be dying. Naboo hands him a tonic of some kind and he sips it without bothering to find out what it is. 

After a mouthful or two he's calmer. The world rights itself on its axis, his insides stop trying to claw out of his chest. One deep breath later he looks up to find Naboo watching him with his brows furrowed (it's the most concern he's ever seen from him). 

"Better?" He asks. 

"Yeah, cheers, Naboo." His palm drags over his face, covers his eyes with his hand. "What am I gonna do?" 

“Just be honest.” Naboo says. 

Vince whips his head up to deliver his best disbelieving stare he can manage. "I can't do that, you batty crease!" 

"Why not?" 

"Because!" Vince splutters. "This is huge! Like, bigger than most things you can think of."

It's not the most apt way of verbalising it, but he struggles to express himself at the best of times so he has to make do. 

"It's like clothes," He starts, hoping the shaman will be as good as Howard at deciphering his fashion metaphors. "Fancying someone is like an accessory, yeah? It's not really _in your face._ It adds to an outfit but it's not essential. Some people might not even notice it so it doesn't really matter if you remember to wear it. Point is - it's small, right? But this," His hands subconsciously rise to his chest, pluck at the fabric of his shirt right over his heart. "This. _Howard._ It's the whole outfit, I think. An ensemble - every little bit of it matters. There isn't a piece of it I can take off and I can't… I-" 

He thinks another sip of tonic might be in order as shaking fingers twist and pull at strands of his hair. "This is the biggest thing I've ever had," he admits. "I don't know what to do with it all, if I'm honest. Where do I put it?"

Naboo's features soften and he leans forward in his seat, gaze as earnest as Vince has ever seen it. He eagerly sits forward too, expecting to receive some true wisdom from his friend. 

"Just be honest." Naboo repeats bluntly. 

Frankly, Vince thinks he is perfectly within his rights to storm out the way he does. 

Just be honest. What planet was that miniature mentalist from? You can’t just be honest about these things. Not when it was your best mate of eleven years, who he was fairly sure was straight as an arrow, and currently pining after a woman that would likely never remember his name. 

And if it wasn't for all of that, his point still stands because as he'd so eloquently put it: this was huge. Neither of them had ever (to his knowledge) had to face something this _intense_ before. The pair of them were a tad emotionally awkward - Vince liked to pretend his default joy was all he had and Howard preferred to hide behind grandeur of deep and complex emotion without committing to the bit enough to actually _show_ any of them. They skated by on humour, bickering and the occasional _real_ moment that left them floundering in the depth of it. Howard wouldn't cope with this, not if he was struggling already. 

He meant what he'd said. He didn't know where to put all of this… this _feeling._ He wouldn't even say the word if he could help it. Not even in his own head. 

One thing is for sure, this didn't feel like the kind of infatuation that you saw in movies or heard about in songs. Those had always lead him to believe that the L word was a happy thing - the answer to all problems or something. Wasn't it supposed to be fulfilling? Hopeful? Leave you walking on air? 

So far, Vince’s experience of it was frustration and confusion and somewhere under all that - _sadness._ And he’s only known about it for a few hours. 

He can’t just be honest about it. The weight of this, he is sure, will crush them both.

What he needs is a plan of action, something to dig him out of this mess. 

The simplest and surely easiest answer is to just ignore it. Ignore it until it goes away, slithers out from where it's made itself at home beneath his ribs and bothers somebody else. 

Easier said than done. 

When Vince returns to the keepers hut it's been nearly three hours since their falling out. Hours he had spent wandering aimlessly from enclosure to enclosure, pretending to be busy so not to be bothered, and instead listening to the various murmured opinions of the animals around him. It has yet to do anything about the weight he's carrying with him (though the Palm Civet did compliment his hair today, which was nice). 

The second he spots Howard it's like it gets three times heavier. 

He must have heard him come in, Vince is rarely quiet and even rarer considerate of other people in the room. Plus he'd thought Howard would still be out in the zoo and therefore did nothing to dampen his swinging of the door on its hinges. He doesn't look up though, keeps his gaze firmly fixed over at the one small window the hut has. 

Vince recognises he is witnessing a sulk and it makes his heart ache (did it always do that?) to have his friend so directly annoyed with him. 

"Howard?" He tries, receives no response. But that's fine. He can work with this. It's hardly the first time he's irritated his best mate to the point of being ignored. "Look, I'm sorry about before alright?" 

The apology has Howard's gaze dart to him briefly - it's the quickest of movements but it's all the indication he needs that he's listening. "I got a bit wound up cause you spilled tea all on my new shirt," It should perhaps be concerning how good he is getting at lying to his fiend. "And I didn't really mean what I said, you know that right?" 

Howard's body language softens. Shoulders drop from around his ears as the tension leaves him. Confident enough in his grovelling tactics, Vince slides into the chair opposite him at their rickety little table. "I really am sorry, Howard."

The other man looks at him and the eye contact almost floors him, suddenly feeling a lot different than it had this morning. Now it's like the strike of a match. The crackle of static. The fizz of a mint in a Coke bottle. 

There's a fond sigh from opposite him. "Alright, you can put that look away. I get it." 

The terrifying thought that he hadn't been trying to give a look (what on earth must he have looked like) crosses his mind but is overtaken by the whippet like speed of his enthusiasm for being forgiven. 

“I’m sorry for spilling tea on you,” Howard eventually huffs, folds his arms like the apology was ripped from him unwillingly. Knowing Howard it likely was. “But you _did_ slap me.” 

“Oh, Howard are you for real!” Vince cries. When left to it the other man could trace every other misgiving back to him; they could be here for hours just going back and forth. He drops his head forward onto the table in dramatic fashion. 

Howard starts chuckling gently at him, amusement colouring his tone. “Alright, little man. Fine.” He sighs fondly. “Go put the kettle on.” 

It’s their definition of an olive branch and Vince obeys without question. 

After that, a whole week goes by relatively normally. 

Well as normal as things can be for an eighteen year old who has had the rather world changing realisation he’s got feelings for his best mate. Meaning it’s the strangest week of Vince’s existence up until this point - which is saying something. 

Sometimes he catches himself looking for just a second too long. While Howard makes their tea. Or when he combs his hair in the morning. Even during less than savoury tasks; the pair of them busy mucking out the goats and Vince still finds his eyes tracking every little movement that he makes. Now that he knows his own head, knows why he’s staring, it just feels different. 

Even contact has changed for him. 

Howard can be very funny about people touching him, he always has been. Vince is quite the opposite. He grew up in the jungle, learnt about interaction from animals - all that brushing up against each other as a greeting and scent marking your family groups. Touching was how he’d known the world. It had been difficult at first to adjust to a friend that preferred no contact at all.

He adjusted by learning how to sneak contact past Howard when he didn’t realise it was happening. 

It was easiest when he was tired. 

The pair of them have hit and miss sleep schedules; probably why they took to night watch so easily. Vince, sometimes plagued by the things he has seen in childhood is kept awake by vivid dreams and Howard has bouts of sleeplessness that could be likened to insomnia. 

On a late night, the ones where the pair of them sat awake until the early hours of the morning yawning into their fists; they were perfect time for Vince to strike. He had the method down to an absolute science; settles on the sofa beside his friend, gradually he’d rest their shoulders together, pressing more and more weight until he was leaning against his friend’s side and Howard - more concerned with how knackered he was than a cheeky cuddle - would slide an arm over his shoulders and let him rest there. 

Other times he could slide it in between their daily business. He could tug at his shirtsleeves as they walked around the zoo. Reach out and pull feathers from his hair, pluck straw from his clothes. On rare occasions he'll link their fingers together and get away with it as long as he had the pretense of dragging him in one direction or another. 

If he was feeling particularly _brave_ he would wait until they were engaged in a verbal spar. While they bantered back and forth he’d reach out and prod him in his ribs, rub at his tummy, pinch his cheeks, or twist fingers in his wispy brown curls (target whatever body part happened to play into his teasing). That one was hit and miss with its success; sometimes Howard allowed it to happen, followed it through with his own reaching hands. Others he was too aware, saw the grasping fingers coming at him and dodged out of the way. 

The thing with admitting that he was in love with Howard was that now he was second guessing himself all the time. He was no longer simply picking apart his friends behaviour in the hopes of achieving contact; now he was analysing his own motivations too. And Vince was not built to analyse things, it was sending him a bit loopy.

When they were catching up on _Colobos the Crab_ and Vince managed to sneak a cuddle in, he spent about three seconds being proud of himself only to immediately retreat from the embrace because it felt different now - _intimate_. It instantly draws attention to how Howard had been duped and suddenly it’s too awkward to do anything. They split to opposite sides of the sofa and say nothing more for the rest of the night. 

A week they spend scraping by like this; truthfully Vince is ready to go the rest of his life like it if he absolutely has to. 

Gideon changes things. 

Vince should know better than anyone that when Howard is fixated he is unlikely to change course without some drastic action - and potentially involvement of the authorities. And he is fixated hard on the head of reptiles. 

The poetry starts being written within two days of their interaction. That in itself isn’t unusual. When he was fifteen Howard wrote a collection of sonnets about a girl he glimpsed across the lunch room _once_. It’s just one of those things that he does. 

But it doesn’t stop there, either. 

After the poetry he starts finding excuses to follow her around the zoo. He’s just going to take the delivery of frozen mice over for the snakes. Wants to eat his lunch on the bench opposite the reptile house - it’s all terribly pathetic. And Vince would tell him so, except he can sort of see where Howard’s coming from. 

He finds himself walking a painful mile in Howard’s shoes. _I’ll keep you company while you moon over that woman; there’s a few boxes of mice there Howard I’ll help you carry them._

The initial idea had been nice; spend time with Howard while he chases his own tail and convinces himself it’s a love life. The reality turns out to be him accidentally standing directly in between the stalker and the love interest, because Gideon never remembers who Howard is - she always remembers Vince. 

It’s an endless ‘ _Oh thank you for bringing the mice, Vince’_ or _‘Hello Vince, are you enjoying your lunch?_ ’ Every interaction goes the same way; compliments are passed to him, Howard reminds the woman of his existence, repeats his name, Gideon looks right through him, and then she moves on. Rinse and repeat. 

By day nine of his ‘ _just ignore it’_ plan, Howard sidles up to him reeking of awkward and Vince knows he’s in trouble just by the sight of him - shoulders hunched and hands twisting anxiously in front of him. 

“Vince,” He starts. Stalls. Vince can only raise his eyebrow at him expectantly, looking at him sideways from where he’s sat on the sofa. “Hey, Vince?” 

“What, Howard?” It's snappier than he intends but the other man just spent fifteen minutes reciting cream poetry so forgive him if he’s a little wound up. 

“Do you think…” More stalling. He considers giving him a good slap to see if it will jump start the words. “You’re good with women, aren’t you?” 

Vince has never exited a room quicker than he does in that moment. 

That’s when plan two comes into effect. 

Ignoring it is clearly not working; not when Howard seems so intent on flaunting his deep devotion of someone else in his face. So Vince’s next best idea (best is probably a bit of a strong word) is to kill two birds with one stone.

Get even and get over it, he thinks. 

It’s been ages since he’s seen Leroy, and even longer since he’s spent any time away from Howard and this zoo. So he dials up his friend on a whim from where he has hidden himself in the Aquarium. 

He answers on the third ring. “Alright Vince?” 

Chewing on his lip, Vince takes a second to make sure this is the choice he wants to make, then asks. “Wanna go out this Friday?” 

Leroy must know exactly what the subtext of that question is, because there’s only a laugh from his end.

_19\. I've been feelin' self destructive, but I love it  
_ _I can't help myself your taste is so seductive_

It’s a different club Leroy brings him to that weekend. Reckons it's _the_ _place to be_ right now. The drinks are cheap and the music is bouncing - draws half the female population of Camden every other night - and most importantly it's _just_ him and Leroy. 

It’s exactly where he needs to be. 

Shockingly, in a move that he felt was much too out of character for himself, Vince hadn't put too much thought into his look tonight. After Howard had returned to the hut to find him pulling a blouse over his head and said _"You look nice,"_ he hadn't wanted to try his luck with any other items of clothing. Knew none of them would make him feel as good as the one that Howard had verbally approved. Still. It's no less glamorous; painted on jeans, the low cut of his top, his boots practically a mirror ball on their own. There was no way he wouldn't be noticed tonight. 

Leroy didn't ask about his sudden and intense need to hit the town; and up until now he hasn't seemed inclined to try. There's a knowing glint to his eye as he urges them towards the heaving bar, though. 

"Howard not up for it?" He asks (yells) as they patiently wait their turn to be served. 

Hoping to avoid talking about him all night had perhaps been a bit of a long shot. He just shrugs, hopes to appear as casual as brunch on a Tuesday. "He doesn't like clubs." 

"Still," His friend is watching him with the sort of look dogs get before they chase after a rabbit. "Just doesn't seem like you to not be with him, is all." 

Vince supposes he must have done something horrible in a past life to have friends like this. One of whom he's in love with and the other who clearly knows about it and yet refuses to _just leave it alone._ "Maybe it's like me _now_." He responds defiantly, eyes narrowing. "People change."

It's at this point someone leaves a space enough at the bar for Vince to slide into. Leroy hesitates, stews over the implications of what he's just said and then he follows suit. 

The round of shots he orders them is as close to an apology that Vince is going to get from him. But it will do. 

From then on the night continues to pass in a similar fashion. 

Having clearly understood his meaning Leroy becomes the best enabler he can possibly be (he's a pal like that). The drinks keep coming; his inhibitions get lower and lower. It takes no time at all for him to trip head first from buzzed into drunk. 

When he stumbles into the mass of bodies that make up the dance floor he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Now, Vince isn’t exactly inexperienced in this _particular_ area. I mean, come on, look at him. 

He’s had his fair share of snogs behind the bike sheds at school. Even a couple of fumbled encounters with faceless partners in the bedrooms of house parties that he (but not Howard) found himself invited to in his teens. 

But none of that compares to this. 

It doesn’t feel like dancing at all, if he’s honest. It’s just hands and hips pressed everywhere. There’s breath in his ear. There’s a thigh pressed between his legs and he’s fine with it. The music round them is alive and seductive, thrumming in his veins and pressing him forward into the nearest warm body he can find. 

He could probably get off like this. There’s enough friction. An imaginative range of people bumping and grinding with him. But it still doesn’t feel like enough. 

In that realisation he retreats for another drink, hoping to find his friend. Instead spots him in a shadowy corner lip locked with a curvy brunette. He wrinkles his nose. Must be time for him to get his own drink for a change. 

The bar is no less rammed than it was earlier but there’s enough space for Vince to squeeze in and rest his arm on the surface. As he waits to be served he taps his fingers to the beat. Tracks the barman back and forth as he serves; he thinks he probably collects taxidermy owls and gives them all names. Hosts little tea parties with them when he’s home alone. 

He starts to laugh to himself, the alcohol coursing through his system making him giddy. A man across the bar catches his eye and for whatever reason only serves to make him laugh a little harder; what must he look like. He ducks his head to hide his blatant insanity. 

There’s a hand at his waist; looking up brings him face to face with that man. Vince thinks he is asking him something, but over the thrum of the music and the churn of alcohol he can’t quite hear him. He’s too busy taking in his features; cheekbones and full lips. The eyes are a little on the small side but he can work with that. 

“Sorry?” He asks, or rather, he shouts. 

“I asked if you were laughing at me,” The man replies. He has a cut glass accent and Vince wants to make his mouth bleed on it. 

“Depends,” He drawls. Gets raised eyebrows in return, willing him to carry on. “Have you come over to be funny?” 

Thankfully, the other man chuckles at that. His wit isn’t the best when he’s a little drunk, though he highly doubts his humour is what drew him over here if the telltale press of fingers at his hip is anything to go by. “Drink?” 

And Vince will probably look back on this incident for years to come and wonder what he was doing. But at the moment it seems quite clear; there’s a man in front of him that isn’t unattractive and is familiar enough in the right places and he’s hurting. So he shakes his head, takes the man’s hand and says. “Buy me one after.” 

The other opens his mouth to no doubt ask what he means but Vince stops that train of thought in its tracks by rocking onto his toes and pressing his mouth to his. It’s sloppy in a way that screams desperation, tongue too eager and teeth clashing. That doesn't bother his chosen partner; feels like he gets off on it, even. Vince finds his mouth free and then he's being pulled by his hand towards the bathroom. 

He doesn’t even ask his name. He doesn't want to know. Talking will make it real. So he just allows himself to be backed into a stall by surprisingly large hands. He can’t breathe around the weight of what he's doing but if he dies now he'll at least go out with a bang. There’s hands on his fly and then, apparently as desperate as he is, the tall stranger is on his knees and nuzzling into his stomach. 

Vince bites his lip and covers his mouth with one hand, drops his head back against the stall so all he can see is the discoloured ceiling. It's not _bad_ by any stretch of the word. Vince is lucky enough to have caught the attention of a person who clearly knows what he's doing in that department. He's as enthusiastic as he is talented; holds Vince still with bruising fingers at his hips.

He's not exactly sure of the etiquette for this kind of thing, really. He twists his free hand in his own shirt and squeezes his eyes shut; focuses on not making a sound.

The whole thing is over in an embarrassingly short time. As wound up as he is (he challenges any eighteen year old to live and work with someone they _want_ 24/7 and fare any better) it was inevitable really. The polite thing to do feels like reciprocation but his jeans are far too nice to kneel on that floor. Instead he drags the man up by his shirt collar to lick into his mouth. Returns the favour by sticking his hand down his trousers and sloppily jerking the stranger to completion while he breathes expletives into his mouth. 

There’s a whole three minutes afterwards where he sags, panting and somewhat satisfied against the cubicle wall, and feels a brief flash of relief. Like he’s gotten something out of his system. Finally scratched an incessant itch. And he thinks it’s all going to be okay. 

That feeling lasts up until Vince turns his head to share a smile with his partner and finds tiny eyes and wispy curly brown hair. Register's the height of him and the big hands. Suddenly it isn’t a relief anymore, it's something a lot more terrifying and twisted. He feels sick. 

The poor man asks him if he wants to have a drink now, his face open and charming. He's actually quite attractive in his own right, and if he weren't suffering a personal crisis Vince might have found good company in him for the rest of the night. But he can't look at him and see anything but the manifestations of his own problems. He doesn’t answer him. Instead, bolts from the bathroom faster than a hare into a burrow.

When he gets back to the rest of the club its just noise (jarring now rather than bouncy) and people and he can't find Leroy when he needs him. Any and all of his smart arse comments would be welcome right now. 

It's going to take more effort and focus than Vince currently has at his disposal to track him down; he just leaves rather than try. Rushes his way through the crowds to the exit and stumbles into the cold night air; gasping lungfuls of it like a lifeline until the sensation of being smothered starts to subside. 

Thankfully the universe must take pity on him because there's a taxi just waiting by the curb and it takes nothing for him to slide in the back and reel off the address of the zoo. The driver does give him a bit of a look, but wordlessly goes forth into the night anyway. 

The entire journey home he thinks all those drinks are going to be making a reappearance; has to put his head between his knees and take slow deep breaths. It doesn’t help much but it feels good to give himself something to focus on. 

One thing is for certain - he _has_ to pull himself together before he gets back to the hut. If Howard is suffering another sleepless night and sees him like this there will be questions he simply isn’t ready to answer. 

He pays the driver with the last of his cash when they arrive, a handful of crumpled notes that could either be too much or too little but he isn't going to wait to find out. The metal gates screech horribly - as they always do - and Vince finds himself inexplicably shushing them. Briefly, the thought of going to Wolf Mountain rather than back to the hut crosses his mind. Enough exposure to fresh air could help him sober up, and it was a full moon tonight - the view would be just lovely. Feels like the right place to be. It is of course just a way to avoid having to look at Howard for a little while longer. 

Regardless of his own transparency on this issue, he almost goes. Annoyingly, though, there is a strong presence in his head that sounds (unsurprisingly) like Howard. _You'll catch a death_ , it says, _you're not even wearing a jacket, you berk, just a bit of fabric that passes for a top._

He goes back to the hut. 

Small mercies; Howard is passed out. Tucked in his sleeping bag with a book abandoned on his chest; the little desk lamp they keep is left on by his head and a thankfully empty mug laying on its side beside him. He is the picture of relaxation. Usually pinched features smoothed in rest, Vince would even say he looks _content_. 

He wishes he knew how to make him look like that everyday of his life. 

Staring at someone while they sleep is probably considered creepy behaviour. Vince promptly sticks his fingers up at that notion. Literally. After everything, he can be forgiven for finding comfort in the image of his serene friend, his sleep mussed hair, and the painfully adorable way his top lip twitches in the beginnings of a smile. He watches just long enough to dull the icy drip of fear over his own actions and replace it instead with gooey warm affection; and then he moves into action. 

Howard's bookmark is tucked into his book and the pages set aside. Vince collects the mug and switches off the lamp all before shedding his own clothing and sliding into his own sleeping bag. 

If he happens to lay himself closer to Howard than usual, he chooses not to think about it. 

_20\. Don't complicate it  
_ _Don't tell me lies  
_ _I'm not your girlfriend  
_ _I ain't never gonna be  
_ _Oh, your wife_

This happens twice more. 

As much as it throws him after the fact, Vince can’t deny that in the moment it always feels genius. He’s a young man of nearly nineteen after all - he has wants and needs. Plus, it does help a little bit. It's helping him feel like himself again. He starts to feel wanted. Independent. Sexy. Like someone who won't always be obsessed with his best friend. 

He doesn’t need Howard, not really, this is all going to be _fine_. 

The hair accidentally becomes another step on his journey. It's decided one drunken night with a girl on his arm and Leroy snickering at him from across the booth that they're sat in. He’s bounced between plenty of styles and colours in his time, and while he loves his long wavy barnet, the colour isn’t really doing it for him anymore. Since starting at the zoo he hasn’t done much with it (been a bit too preoccupied) he'd let his more natural soft brunette grow through. 

Now it’s boring. He wants a change. 

So when he follows a girl back to her flat and it comes up that she's got a box of hair bleach lying around it seems like fate. 

He's not past the point of insanity that he'd let her do it though. No one touches his hair, doesn't matter if he's neck deep in frantically bad behaviour or not. Instead he waits until she is suitably worn out and asks to borrow her bathroom - she sits on the floor in her underwear and an extra large t-shirt watching while he sections off clumps of hair at random and bleaches them blonde. 

The walk of shame he does back to the zoo the following morning is worth it just to see the double take Howard does. It makes something purr happily in him when the man’s gaze runs from head to toe and back again; lingers on his newly highlighted hair. There’s something in his eyes Vince is far too hungover to decipher, but he decides he likes it. 

Distantly, he knows that his chosen method of coping isn’t healthy. But while he’s young he can pass it off as a bit of fun, and so he doesn’t (refuses to) see the harm in it. He feels _fine_. 

He feels fine right up until he’s bouncing around the zoo distributing seed one sunny Thursday morning (a job he’d normally do with Howard but the last time he'd seen _him_ , he was trancing up a storm to some horrific trumpet nonsense) and he spots Leroy. 

Leroy and Howard having a conversation. 

Realistically; Leroy is friends with Howard too. They'd known each other vaguely before Vince had even entered the picture since Leroy was in the year below Howard at school. But they hadn't been _friends -_ not in any meaningful sense - until Vince showed up and became the glue that held them all together. Yet seeing them now, Howard smirking at some tale their mutual friend is telling him, it feels a little like two of his worlds colliding in a frighteningly jarring way. 

He’s at their sides before he knows it. “Alright?” 

“Alright, Vince.” The man greets. “Was just telling Howard about that funky barman with the eye patch.” 

“Oh yeah, that was genius.” It settles his stomach only a little. “Thought about stealing it before we left.” 

“Next time.” Leroy jokes. 

“I don’t know how you do it.” Howard interjects easily, wrinkling his nose in distaste just at the memory of a club, he imagines. “Go to places like that all the time.” 

Both Leroy and Vince roll their eyes at him. “It’s called having fun.” Leroy says at the exact same moment Vince announces, “‘Cause we’re not dullards.” 

Snickering at each other (and at Howard) is a natural part of their friendship. It’s familiar; eases his worries marginally. Interaction starts to feel normal again. 

“Just try not to keep him out so late next time, will you?” Howard squints between them, wedging his own tease. “Worse than a giraffe trying to climb through a window when he stumbles home half-drunk.” 

It’s a little like a thunderstorm, what happens next. He sees the flash of light, the mischief glinting in Leroy’s gaze; closely followed by the thunder of his words. 

“That ain’t me.” He winks over at Vince in a greatly over exaggerated fashion. He thinks he might just vomit. “I’ll pass the message on to the next person he disappears off with, though.” 

He starts to chuckle, unaware that his jest hasn’t quite landed with either of the other men. Vince is on the verge of hyperventilating; something dark (shame?) wriggling around in the pit of his stomach. And Howard? Howard is looking at Vince with an expression beginning in worry and ending somewhere in the region of curiosity. 

He can’t stand to look at him long enough to analyse it, his eyes find his feet instead. Despite knowing he hasn’t _really_ done anything wrong, there's the distinct feeling of being scolded permeating the air around them. 

“See that you do.” How Howard manages to put the humour in his voice, Vince has no idea. “Right, I better go, Fossil wants to see me about the Naked Muskrats.” 

There’s a rather meek excuse of a goodbye before the man shuffles off in the direction of their managers office. 

Howard is barely out of sight when Vince smacks at Leroy’s arm. “What did you go and say that for?” 

“What!” Leroy sounds affronted. “Can’t take a joke?” 

“He didn’t need to know about all that!” 

It’s Leroy’s turn to give him a funny look, except Vince can read that one easily. It’s out and out pity. Times like this he wished the ground would swallow him up. 

“Oh, Vince.” He sighs. 

“Shut your face.” He points a finger at him, an action that would be threatening if the digit wasn’t trembling. “Don’t wanna hear it, alright?” 

“Alright.” 

Vince looks down at his bucket of seed and then off in the direction Howard went. Giving him a wide berth for the rest of the day would probably be wise. “I better get back to work too. See ya, Leroy.” 

The other takes the hint and bids his goodbyes. As he saunters off, Vince forces all his negative feelings down and piles his sunshine nature on top. As if nothing was wrong, he skips off in the direction of the hutch area.

Whatever awkwardness this mishap caused, they’d get over it. They always get over it. 

_21\. Bad trip I couldn't get off_  
 _And maybe I bit off more than I could chew  
_ _And overhead of the aqua blue_

Vince has done a lot of stupid things in his life, he would be the first to admit it. But nothing feels quite as stupid as offering to train Howard for a boxing match against _a Kangaroo_. 

In his defence, it had been a bloody awkward couple of weeks since Leroy had all but told Howard that Vince was sleeping around in his spare time. They’d been doing well to get by as if nothing was wrong but Vince could feel it, underneath the surface. There’s a weird tension. Their banter isn’t quite as quick as usual. Most of their conversation revolves around Gideon now, and Vince is still swimming in a sickly cocktail of guilt and embarrassment that he humours every single one without complaint. 

_“Mrs Gideon ring for me today?” He asks._

_Vince’s automatic response is comedy, “As if she’s gonna ring for you.” but then there’s this look on Howard’s face that instantly makes him take it back. “Oh, I mean she might do.”_

More often than not he finds himself comforting the other man as he dips into a familiar cycle of lovesick self-loathing. _“Maybe she’s trapped in a cabinet.”_ or _“Those snakes are right chatterboxes, she’s probably just held up, Howard.”_ The excuses are wearing a bit thin, the pair knowing none of them are true. He just can’t stand seeing the other man so down on himself, and Howard _does_ seem to appreciate the comfort some. 

It’s fine. It’s okay. But when Howard gets roped into a crazy scheme Vince steps up like a good friend because he feels a bit like a drowning man scrambling for anything to keep him afloat in this friendship. The two of them against the world (or a kangaroo in this case) seems as good a fix as any. 

The only problem being that he knows absolutely nothing about boxing. There’s a distant memory of an uncle that owned a (barely) successful gym at one point. Not a real uncle, though, more like a friend of the family (one of Vince’s many pseudo families he had gathered throughout the years) that despite not being related you would always call uncle anyway.

It had seemed like a perfect plan. How hard could a kangaroo be to beat? Maybe they’d be a bit like sharks; bop them once on the nose and they’d back off. 

Plus, for the first few hours it had worked incredibly well. Things seemed to right themselves between the pair. They were laughing together again, _really_ laughing. They spent the in between moments of his uncles recommended training montage giggling at each other like schoolboys. Howard teasing that Vince couldn't throw a punch, Vince playfully biting back that it didn't look that Howard could either. It was _them._

But it didn’t last long. Vince’s uncle (who he wasn’t sure actually _was_ his uncle in hindsight) had warned him that Howard was going to lose this fight. It was suddenly beginning to look like he’d made a critical error convincing him to take part in the first place; they could have easily gotten over some nude photos being spread - even with the chest thing. 

Not as easy to get over Howard being murdered by a mental marsupial. 

Going to Naboo had seemed like a brilliant idea. The tiny shaman always seemed to have the answers. And that had left him with strange dreams of a nature even _his_ mind couldn’t come up with alone; in hindsight it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to figure out what they actually meant. 

Howard might have won the fight a lot quicker if he hadn’t been such an idiot. 

It was one of the worst things Vince had ever had the displeasure of experiencing; and that included the horrific things the Hyena sisters had put him through. That included being dropped off in his first (and second, and third, and thereon) foster home. It even included the initial few weeks that Howard decided he wanted facial hair and sported varying degrees of ridiculous styles on his face before settling on the moustache. 

One thing was for certain, Howard could take a punch. It was just that Vince couldn’t really take watching it. It was the Kangaroo, the things it was saying in a tongue only Vince could understand. The entire match was a rare demonstration of the times he hated his gift. Hearing the rabid thing snarl sickeningly creative threats and spit insults was making him sick to his stomach with anger. 

They’d done it though. Together. Vince grabbed it's delicates and Howard managed to land a punch good enough to knock the thing flat out - maybe all that training _had_ helped a little. 

After the fight, and the subsequent humiliation Howard faces, Vince is there to shoulder the man’s weight and hoist him back to the hut for some much needed TLC - meaning a healthy dose of first aid for his cuts and bruises. 

Howard is in two minds as Vince deposits him on the sofa; two minds that are at war with one another. He is still riding high on the adrenaline and while simultaneously feeling the sting of yet another rejection from Gideon. Yoyoing between the two emotions drastically. 

He’s no sooner finished raving about how _incredible_ and _nimble_ he was during the fight, and then he whines, “It’s over for me. Might as well pack up now, I’m never coming back from that.” 

“Alright Captain Positive,” Vince scolds, shedding his feather boa and flicking on the hot tap to warm the water a bit. “Let’s not get hasty, yeah?” 

“I’m serious, Vince.” Howard slumps where he sits, exhaustion written on his features. “I may have won the fight but I lost the war. The war of love. I was humiliated back there.” 

Vince tuts softly; now armed with a bowl of warm water and a damp flannel he kneels on the sofa by his friend. Without waiting for permission he starts cleaning the blood away with gentle dabs. “Well, yeah, but I think everyone will forget by the end of the week, anyway.” 

It’s not the _nicest_ thing he could have said, but it was a painful truth that even Howard couldn’t deny. 

He breathes a laugh in agreement, but it only serves to make him wince as his many injuries are disturbed. He doesn’t ask Vince to stop though. They are enveloped in a comfortable silence; the only noise is the trickle of water as the red stained flannel is rinsed over and over again. 

The bloody pulp starts to look like Howard again. Vince shifts, intending to refresh his bowl and dig out their first aid kit for some disinfectant (who knows what that beast was carrying) and bandages - but there’s a hand on his wrist that stops him. 

“I, uh-” Howard’s eyes are downcast, embarrassed. “I suppose I should say thank you - for helping me.” 

Vince crumbles inside. Outwardly, he grins a cheeky grin. “My reputation would never have survived if you’d lost.” He says, by way of explanation, but Howard doesn’t look like he’s buying it. “Bowie isn’t friends with losers is he? Winners only club, this is.” 

The upward quirk of Howard’s mouth he gets in return is knowing, but thankfully, neither of them are very good at actually _talking_ about things. So it’s no surprise when Howard chooses to respond with, “What club?”

“The Vince Noir friendship club.” He shoots back.

“It isn’t a club if there’s only one person in it.” 

Vince throws the fresh flannel at him in response; it slaps comically against his chest. “How dare you, there's tonnes of people desperate to be in this club. There’s a waiting list and everything!”

“Is there a joining fee?” 

“People pay me in liquorice bootlaces.” 

“Liquorice bootlaces and glitter?” 

“Yeah, it’s well genius.” 

They lock eyes. Vince wills his expression to not be a dead giveaway for the hope that settles in his chest. Hope that they’ve managed to scrape normalcy back from the depths of the clubbing incidents. Then Howard breaks into laughter and Vince is tumbling along with him, and that hope blooms into bubbling joy. 

They’re fine. Whatever tension had grown between them is gone now. Fighting a kangaroo - stupid, but exactly what they’d needed.

_22\. Cause I've done things that I can't speak  
_ _And I tried to wash you away, but you just won't leave  
_ _So won't you take a breath and dive in deep?_

They manage to maintain this version of normal (normal for _them_ in any matter) for a while. 

Vince was correct, after the kangaroo incident many people seemed to forget it ever happened. Gideon went back to not knowing Howard’s name, a fact that while annoying, the other keeper saw as an opportunity to make new advances. It seemed to be his new coping mechanism, every time she forgot him he would make some vague attempt at jogging her memory before giving in and just starting afresh with his flirting. 

It always failed. 

And in between those veritable disasters, he had his friend back. They were once more following each other to and from jobs - regardless if they were both required for it. It meant sometimes Howard tried to put eye drops into the Squids gills - but it was appreciated none the less. The ugly sensation of shame had dissipated completely, leaving room for genuine conversation once more.

It was a bit strange, some might think. How a simple statement from their mutual friend could leave both of them so out of sorts in the first place. It’s not like it was Howard’s business for him to get upset over - and Vince was a young, single, attractive man with enough charm to woo half of Camden. Where did either of them get off falling out over such a silly thing? 

But when considering it in hindsight (which he hears is 20/20), Vince doesn’t remember if Howard had ever _actually_ put on airs of disgust at Vince’s behaviour like he had interpreted. Or, if it was (just maybe) all of his own self-deprecation spilling out subconsciously and tainting their interactions. Maybe the distance had been born from Vince’s own perceived failings to their friendship and Howard simply not understanding what was going on. 

Regardless. Vince’s night time partners remained a topic that neither of them would touch with a ten foot barge pole. Howard _had_ reached a point of comfort that he would inquire almost once a week about Vince’s intentions to go out with Leroy again. 

Of course, every time he said no. 

“Oh yeah?” Howard had asked on one instance, seemingly genuinely interested in the reasoning. “Thought you liked going out?” 

And where before, Vince might have been too wrapped up in trying to figure out just _what_ that question meant, now he could see it for what it was. Howard being curious; he knew that Vince liked nightclubs. Liked dancing and drinking and being social with a vast array of people. 

It was an innocent enough wondering that he quite happily answered it with, “I do, but I’m a bit skint. Gonna have to wait a few weeks before I go out again.” 

If that happened to be a lie, no one would ever know. He could hardly admit that the thought of going out now gave him a horrific feeling of wrongdoing. Like he was a cheating wife sneaking out at all hours while Howard sat at home knowing _exactly_ what he’d be getting up to. 

Even if he didn’t pull, would Howard assume he had anyway?

So no. He stops going out with Leroy. Doesn’t even consider the thought of a one night stand since the last encounter (that left him with blonde highlights) and instead puts the Zoo back at the top of his priorities list. 

It’s pretty close to perfect.

But Vince knew it wouldn’t stay perfect forever. They never talked about it. Even if it had all been more on Vince’s side than a shared experience of distance - people were supposed to talk about these things surely? Howard should - by all rights - be demanding to know why Vince had been pushing him away in the first place. It does cross his mind that perhaps he should be the one to start that discussion. To explain. 

But wouldn’t that just be a slippery slope to confessing he’s _still_ haunted by his infatuation with Howard even after years of no apparent reciprocation. 

So they don’t talk about it. And eventually it comes back to bite them. 

Many people would think that one instance of crying into a fishpond and having it reported on by the Guardian would be enough to put anyone off a potential romantic partner. But Howard Moon was a man of love blind stupidity as much as he was of action. 

Vince has lost track of which rejection this must be when his friend comes crashing into the keepers hut one Wednesday evening. It was clearly a bad one if the expression on his face is anything to go off of - how he starts slamming things about in their little kitchenette. Howard’s anger very rarely comes projecting outwards, so this does not bode well.

That, and he’s carrying a bottle of rum. 

"Where'd you get that?" Vince demands immediately. Torn between taking it from him and fetching glasses for them both. 

“Fossil’s office.” Howard smirks at him, it’s tainted with something dangerous that makes his stomach flip. “Want some?” 

He almost says yes. If not just so he isn’t left behind. But Howard does so much taking care of Vince (sometimes annoying, but always appreciated) that he thinks if Howard wants to be a little bit of a mess tonight then it’s probably his turn to operate on cleanup duty. “Nah, I’m alright.” 

Someone should stay sober and supervise. Howard shrugs his shoulders at him as if it’s his loss and takes a drink straight from the bottle. Watching it makes him wince. Must have been a _very_ bad one. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He offers, thinking that’s what Howard would do if their situations were reversed. Plus, his friend normally feels much better after he’s had a somewhat crazed rant about his problems. 

But shockingly, he says, “Not this time.” 

Just keeps swigging from his bottle, staring ahead with an empty gaze. 

This goes on for almost ten minutes. Vince casting him careful side glances and struggling to think of anything to say. He feels a little out of his depth like this. Any time he’s seen Howard drink it’s been lagers or beers, and even those with an air of reluctance. Vince is the drinker between them. He’s never seen Howard express his frustration in a manner like this either. 

Drinking your problems away was supposed to be Vince’s thing wasn’t it? And wasn’t something about that behaviour supposed to be abhorrent? Wasn’t that why they skated by on the brink of awkward for so long? 

He almost says as much - air their collective grievances in the hopes the other man will just say what’s on his mind for once. But he isn’t sure either of them would handle the fight that could potentially spring from that. 

So he does the next best thing; flips his magazine closed, moves to perch himself on the arm of the sofa, feet on the cushion next to Howard’s thigh, and he holds his hand out for the bottle. 

“Thought you didn’t want any?” Howard asks, but hands it to him anyway. 

“Changed my mind.” He takes a swig that is much too big and leaves him coughing around the taste; face pinched against the burn of swallowing. It makes Howard laugh at him. 

“Nothing new there.” He sighs, content. 

Despite this being a rather out of character behaviour from Howard, Vince can’t help but notice how relaxed he looks in that moment. It’s as if the poor man was looking for an excuse not to be put together. So used to coping with the whims of Vince’s mood swings that having the chance to swing into his own mood must be nice for him. 

They sit like that for an indeterminate amount of time. The bottle passes between them with ease, fingers brushing as they drink. At some point Vince turns to the record player and slaps on the first track his hand comes into contact with, it’s some big band monstrosity that he would normally turn off immediately; there’s no harm in letting Howard enjoy it for a little while. 

“How do you do it, Vince?” Howard asks into the room eventually. 

Having relocated to the floor; the rum making him loose and relaxed where he’s splayed. Vince just squints up at him. “What you sayin’?” 

Howard pushes himself forward in his seat. Elbows on his knees and the bottle hanging precariously from his fingers. “How do you do it?”

“Be this cool?” He tries, a grin threatening to split his face. 

The other man rolls his eyes fondly, foot stretching out to nudge his toes into his side. “No. No, the- the women... thing.” 

Before he can stop it, Vince wrinkles his nose. “Are we really gonna do this?” 

“This?” 

“This.” 

When Howard still looks blankly at him, Vince waves a hand between them and elaborates. “ _Ooh Vince, share your lady smarts with me, the wheelbarrow ‘int workin’’_ ” He probably didn’t have to put on the horrendous northern accent, but he does. 

Howard blinks at him. His cheeks are coloured rose with the flush of alcohol and it makes him look ten years younger. “I haven’t asked before.” 

“Yeah, you ‘ave. Or tried to.” Vince closes his eyes, lest he get lost in those warm brown peepers. “An’ you never even listen to me, neither.” 

“Maybe your ‘smarts’ aren’t that good then.” 

Vince catches his lower lip between his teeth like it would physically restrain his smile. Howard’s accent is typically so dull around the edges many people wouldn’t know by ear where he was from; when he drinks though, Vince can hear it. The soft curves of his west Yorkshire lineage seeping through. It’s the most perfect thing he’s ever heard. 

“My smarts are the best around.” He boasts playfully. “I’ve got the know how.” 

“Hmm. So I’ve heard.” 

And there it is. The mutter that breaks the moment. 

Vince pries his eyes open to stare up at Howard. His mind a little too sluggish to properly decipher if that was supposed to be an insult or if he was just reading too much into it. “What?” 

Hooping he would get clarification is perhaps silly. What he gets is Howard shrugging one shoulder and repeating. “So I’ve heard.” 

Still confused, Vince pushes himself up onto his elbows. “What does that mean?”

It was a pretty daft question to ask, considering Vince is fairly confident he knows exactly what his friend meant. But they had gone so long pretending none of _that_ ever happened, he can’t quite tell if he’s right. 

Suddenly awkward, Howard looks away. The wind has left his sails it seems. 

“Howard,” Against all his better judgment, Vince presses. “What does that mean?”

“Jus’… You know. I’ve heard.” Howard looks panicked. A man who has started something he doesn’t want to finish. “That you know what you’re doing.”

He gapes. “ _Know what I’m doing_?” 

“I don’t mean-” He’s getting frustrated with himself, the fingers of his right hand pushing at his left wrist. Chinese burn on the horizon. “Leroy said.” 

“Oh right. Leroy says I’m a slut so it must be true.” It’s unfair _and he knows it,_ but it comes out of his mouth anyway. 

“I didn’t say that!”

“Didn’t have to.” 

Somewhere, Vince’s sober self is having a heart attack. He’s putting words in his friend’s mouth and then punishing him for it, for what? All because he can't process his own emotions in a proper way. This is why people like Vince shouldn't have deep feelings - he's going down swinging, dragging anyone in the nearby vicinity with him by the looks of it - he should stick to the empty headed business. 

It’s a clumsy process, pushing himself to his feet. It was probably a terrible idea to drink on an empty stomach anyway, never mind drinking it straight. He feels sick. He feels trapped. He feels disgusting. 

If he were sober he’d realise he was having this fight all by himself, Howard not contributing anything but looking on like a helpless puppy that didn’t understand why it’s owner was suddenly so angry at it. 

This _should_ be a lesson in his tendency to project onto others. Neon sign number one that Vince was in dire need of a good look at himself. That involving anyone else in the turmoil was a mistake. But it's a lesson that won't be learnt properly until he has sobered up a bit more. 

He plans on fixing that by getting out of the hut. 

“Where you going?” He asks, but Vince is too busy pulling on his boots to answer him. “Vince?”

He makes sure to slam the door on his way out. Petty, but it makes him feel marginally better so he repeats the action for a second time just to make sure he gets his point across. It’s only once he’s outside in the cold night air that he realises he might have just made a tit of himself. 

But between the two of them, it was likely going to be him, wasn’t it. Vince has always been the slightly more expressive one. Howard called him the sunshine kid; he was known for a tantrum or two in his time though. Too bad he had to do it to his (mostly) innocent friend. 

He can’t just go back in though, not right away. First he needs to clear his head a bit.

Dropping his face into his palms he takes two deep breaths and then sets off walking. 

_23\. I'm a saddened man.  
_ _I'm a broken boy.  
_ _I'm a toddler with a complex toy._

Vince likes Wolf Mountain because it’s one of the best places to see the full moon. That, and there’s something quite relaxing about climbing all the way to the top and sitting on the peak to catch your breath. It’s a great place to go when you’re trying to empty your mind. 

Except that it’s freezing tonight and Vince didn’t grab a coat during his fury fueled exit. 

The _second_ best place to go when you want to be alone with your thoughts is the Aquarium. That’s where Vince finds himself.

At night when all the lights are out, there’s only the shimmering blue of the tanks reflecting off the walls. It’s therapeutic in a way, watching the ripples of the water play out in shadows. It’s so quiet in there, too. Marine animals never talk to him much. He isn’t sure if that’s because they don’t like him, or if it’s just because they haven’t got much to say. Either way, it’s good for having a think.

The only downside is Tony the prawn, who eyes him with a death stare from his tank as if he knows exactly what kind of stupidity has occurred tonight. 

“What?” He eventually demands, frowning at the Crustacean. 

Tony doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring. Vince thinks if a Prawn was capable of making threatening gestures, then Tony would currently be doing it. It makes him so uncomfortable that he moves. Finds himself cross legged on the floor beneath the Seahorse tank. Chin dropped to his chest, eyes squeezed shut against the judgement that he can still feel radiating from Tony despite the fact he isn't in his eye line anymore

The smug Prawn was almost certainly justified in that judgement; which was the worst thing. 

Almost as soon as he’d left the hut he wanted to go back inside, if only to apologise for putting words in Howard’s mouth. He _still_ wants to get up and go back. The thought of what might be waiting for him there makes him stay, though. Howard certainly hadn’t been involved in the fight before he left, but that’s not to say he won’t be one Vince gets back. 

Howard isn’t a fighter. Not usually. He’s had his moments, as does everyone, but when it comes to the pair of them - Howard _isn’t a fighter._ He’d lie down and take what Vince handed to him any day of the week, regardless of whether he deserved it. Guilt twists deep in his gut. 

Almost every disagreement they have ever had has been Vince shouting. Vince throwing things. Vince walking out. Vince the driving force behind the escalation. Howard often plays peacemaker. If he can.

Because Howard’s anger is always internalised. 

Once, when they were young, Vince had broken a ceramic saxophone. It was a truly awful thing. A little trinket probably scooped up for less than a fiver on some market stall. He hadn’t meant to, it was an accident. They’d been mucking about in Howard’s bedroom. Vince was trying to climb the dresser, not that he can remember _why_ , but at the time he was determined. Howard kept trying to talk him down, occasionally grabbing at his ankles and telling him to stop. Vince’s clumsy seven year old feet had lost purchase and brought the whole thing - ceramic saxophone and all - tumbling down.

He had thought it had been pretty funny, but Howard wasn’t laughing as he scraped up the shards. 

It had been a gift from his late grandmother. 

Vince expected to be yelled at. Maybe even to be hit or kicked by the other child; he would be furious if anyone had broken something from Bryan, or one of the few items he had as a connection to his real parents. 

But he didn’t. Just quietly asked him to leave. The next day he showed up to school with his wrists rubbed red raw; but he still smiled at Vince like nothing had happened. 

Howard had never been good at channeling his anger where the anger deserved to go. Some silly deep engraved notion convincing him that no matter what it was probably _his own fault._ Which only made this whole thing worse, as he sat here wallowing in his self pity over an argument that could have been avoided. Can they even call it an argument? It was all Vince really. 

This is not exactly where he imagined he’d be at the age of nineteen - just a breath away from his twenties. 

One thing’s for sure though; his attempts at moving on from Howard were not going to plan at all. And if he didn’t find a new way of coping soon he was sure he was going to do himself some permanent mental damage. Nearly a year of this and all he had to show for it was a few new internal scars. It’s been as draining as it was uncomfortable.

It certainly hasn’t been easy on their friendship either - Vince can be erratic at the best of times, and Howard was used to that, but this was taking it to a whole new level. 

Getting over it didn't work. Distracting himself with other people hadn't worked. Perhaps now the only thing left to do was accept it. Live with it. Hope that it didn’t consume him from the inside out; because it was certainly big enough to try. This affection that lived in his chest was colossal. Half the time he was so afraid he wouldn’t be able to fit anything else inside of him; because it was taking up all of his room. Filling out the empty spaces. 

If he gave in trying to fight it, what would happen? Would it keep growing until it smothered him? 

Can you love someone so much that eventually you cease to exist? That’s what he is afraid of happening. But in the end, he’s already so tired. 

Time to just let it be. 

That in mind, Vince has done enough thinking to make his brain box hurt. It was about time to head back to the keepers hut. He still walks slowly though, delaying the inevitable. Praying Howard won’t ask him any questions when he gets there. Thankfully, Howard’s passed out cold when he gets back. 

Vince tucks his sleeping bag over him and then climbs into his own; lets his hand brush the back of Howard’s as he drifts off. 

_24\. You give me that look  
_ _I'm sorry baby let's make up  
_ _You do that thing that makes me laugh_

For once, Vince is awake before Howard. He has miraculously avoided the sting of a hangover, the perks of his age he supposes, and managed to shower _and_ get dressed before his friend even shows a hint of waking. 

The hangover dodge has clearly not worked on Howard, who awakes with an agonised groan just as his toast pops. Perfect timing. 

Vince snickers to himself; watches the other man drag the sleeping bag over his head to avoid the sunlight. 

“Mornin’.” He coos cheerfully. 

He gets only a grunt in response. That’s his cue to stride over and nudge at the cloth lump with his foot; as soon as bleary eyes peek out at him he holds out a freshly prepared resolve and a slice of dry toast. 

His friend peeks out of his cocoon with suspicious eyes and it makes him sigh fondly. “I’m capable of making toast, Howard.” 

The other man huffs, gingerly pushing himself to a sitting position. “Never said a thing.”

“Didn’t have to.” Vince replies without thinking. But it catches in his throat midway through; they both seem to sense it, the tension from last night still hanging over their heads. Vince starts, “Howard-” 

At the same moment Howard says, “I didn’t mean-” 

Both cut off they just stare at each other. It’s Vince who decides to be the brave one this time. “I know you didn’t. I went a bit funny in me mind tank, to be honest.” 

Howard squints up at him. “So we’re alright then?” 

“Yeah, ‘course we are.” Vince beams at him, tries his best to channel everything in him that is made of sunshine. It appears to work for Howard, who smiles a shy smile in return. “Now drink that and get up, ‘cause you’re doing my turn on the porpoise racing today.” 

“What, why?” 

“Because you were a terrible influence on me.” He teases, reaching out to grab his hat off the coat rack and drop it onto his head. “Gettin’ drunk on a school night - shame on you.” 

Howard is nibbling at his toast carefully, like it might bite him. “It’s not like I make a habit of it.” 

“Exactly,” Vince bobs his head once in a nod. “And this will teach you not to. Porpoise race at 11 - I’m off to defrost some Mice for the Owls.” As he backs for the door he sends a wink to his sleep ruffled friend. 

The look he gets in response is nothing short of devastating for Vince. Brown curls sticking up in all directions, a half formed glare and his nose scrunched up in distaste - all before a smirk seems to break free of its own accord. 

And since he’s given up the fight, he lets the wave of warm affection punch him straight in the gut. Rides out the aftereffects; a light flush and a pleasant dizzy feeling. But he can’t linger. Giving up the fight isn’t the same as letting Howard catch on. He slips from the hut holding his breath, only lets it go once he’s free from the stifling air. 

As he goes about his business for the rest of the day, there’s an immovable grin on his face

_25\. And I believe that half the time, I am a wolf among the sheep  
_ _Gnawing at the wool over my eyes_

Dixon Bainbridge enters their lives a short time later, and Howard decides he hates him immediately. 

“He’s a ballbag.” 

In Howard’s defence, it’s only the fifth time he’s heard that sentiment expressed that day. Which is mild. Since the mustached man arrived at the Zoo Vince has become used to hearing it at least seven or eight by breakfast. 

“Who is he anyway?” Vince asks as he sweeps the floor of the Parakeet enclosure (technically Howard’s job). 

Fossil had of course, introduced them all to Bainbridge upon his arrival. He was a shareholder, apparently, went into business with Tommy Nooka way back when. But up to now he’d been on some extravagant globe trotting expedition that had kept him too busy to show his face. He’d left Bob Fossil to run things in his stead.

Howard sums all of this information up with a curt, “He’s a prick.” 

Rolling his eyes, pauses his activity long enough to land one hand on his hip and level the other man with a (hopefully) stern look. “Howard.” 

“Alright.” The other man sighs. “He’s a _colossal_ prick.” 

“Why do you hate him so much?” 

“There’s something wrong about him, that’s why. Something fishy going on.” Vince just hums at him, humouring the man’s unfounded loathing. “There must be a reason he just showed up from nowhere.” 

“Didn’t Tommy ever mention him?” Vince had never met Tommy himself, the man having long since died (or disappeared, Howard never let him forget that they never found a body) by the time he was recruited. Howard had worked here for almost three years before that though, mentored by the original owner. 

“Never.” Howard insists. His tiny brown eyes are lit up with the kind of passion only standing up for a dead (disappeared) man’s values can inspire in him. “Tommy wouldn’t have gone into business with someone like that, anyway.” 

“Well, he obviously did.” Howard glares at him for his effort. “He’s not all that bad, you know.” If possible, the glare intensifies. 

“What?” 

“Bainbridge, he’s not _that_ bad.” Not when you compare him to the nutcase they have been calling boss for all this time. 

The very brief meeting when he arrived at the zoo (very brief because he’d been much too preoccupied rushing off through a green door weirdly labelled ‘Secret Lab’) Vince hadn't exactly gotten a _bad_ feeling. He'd been ordering their mad American manager about a lot, but that was to be expected. Otherwise he seemed very polite, charming even. Vince likes to give people the benefit of the doubt if he can, and if you asked him this Bainbridge character could turn out to be just what the zoo needs. “Might be nice to have him around.” 

“You’ve gone wrong.” Howard accuses, making a hasty retreat from the enclosure.

Left alone, Vince can only sigh fondly at his friend’s antics. He will admit though; Howard was scorchingly attractive when he got wound up. Perhaps he should mention Bainbridge more often. 

_26\. This isn't what I wanted, but  
_ _I can't keep my filthy fucking mouth shut_

Talking to animals isn’t always an amazing gift like people think it is. 

You can’t pick and choose when to listen, it doesn’t really work like that. Often Vince has been wandering past an enclosure and become privy to some chatter he really didn’t need to hear. Who knew Bush Dogs were such gossips? Not only that, but once an animal finds out you can understand it, they can be a bit insufferable. Always chatting at you or screeching for attention. 

He gets by, though. He’s learnt to tune it out enough that it’s more like an underlying thrum of white noise than it is overwhelming. It’s always there, a whisper in the back of his head, but it’s ignorable. 

Mostly it’s a concentrated effort of keeping it as secret as possible, the less people that know the less animals are likely to find out and thus he gets through his day a little quieter. That plan doesn’t often work though, because Vince just can’t help himself where animals are concerned. He almost always ends up cooing away at them anyway. 

Howard knows better than anyone what a burden it can be, he’s probably one of the only people Vince knows that has never asked him to use it. Rather he’s the one who, at the end of most days, is handing Vince a couple of painkillers to ease the headache that can come from constant exposure. 

So it comes as a bit of a shock when his friend drags him by the elbow into one of the new enclosures with the fox named Jack Cooper. 

There are many strange things about Jack, but topping that list is the fact that he _doesn’t like Vince._

He growls at him the second he steps foot into the enclosure. “Wha’s he doing here.” 

“Calm down, Jack.” Howard still has a hold on Vince’s arm, preventing him from going anywhere. The other hand extends towards the Canid in a placating manner. Vince’s eyes lock onto it for a moment. He’s always liked Howard’s hands. 

No time for that now, Jack’s still growling. “He’s got a point, what _am_ I doing here?” 

It’s not like he was here to be a translator. Jack, like select few animals, didn’t need Vince as a conduit for speech. Some animals can just talk. Neither Vince nor Howard has ever questioned this, such is the nature of the world - some things just are - but Vince likes to think it’s something to do with the fact that the ones who can _just talk_ are always the mouthy ones. Nature can’t stop them from saying what’s on their mind even if it wanted to. 

Jack is case and point. “Get ‘im away from me, right?” 

“I need help with his medicine.” Howard pleads, turning away from the fox and addressing Vince solely. “It won’t take five minutes… please?”

That wasn’t fair. He melted like warm butter the second Howard used that tone with him. Soft and pleading. And he was sure the man knew it, too. “Alright.” As much as Vince dislikes Jack, he’d never actively prevent the animal from getting what he needed.

Jack didn’t belong to the Zooniverse until recently. He’d come from another establishment that was run (if you can believe it) even worse than this one. The poor creature had arrived malnourished and injured, Howard had been convinced that he was on his last legs. 

He’d even given Vince the _‘don’t get too attached to the animals’_ speech. 

But then, in a plot twist worthy of an Oscar - Howard, the epitome of hypocrisy that he is, devoted himself to nursing the animal back to health. Weeks went by and Vince would find the man covering Jack in warm blankets and hand feeding him scraps of his lunch. He often dips out of his responsibilities under the guise of needing to take care of Jack. 

Whenever Vince tries to help, the fox gets agitated with his presence and Howard dismisses him out of hand. 

Maybe the other man is just happy to have an animal that likes him, since none of the others do. Which would be fine, except Vince isn’t used to people (or animals) _not_ liking him- so he takes it a bit personally. 

He’s not heartless though. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“Just help me change his dressing.” Howard finally lets his arm go, which is a shame. “Then you can go back to doing your hair or whatever it is you were up to.” 

Vince smirks at him. “This masterpiece takes time, you know.” 

“Are ya done flirtin’?” Jack snaps, his fur bristling in agitation. “Can we get on?” 

Vince rolls his eyes but moves under Howard’s instruction easily. It’s like being sent back to the early days of his employment again. He snips off length of bandage and applies disinfectant with his friend guiding him. It’s nice, Jack’s unimpressed commentary aside. 

When they’re finished, Jack’s back leg in a fresh new dressing, he scarpers into the underbrush of his enclosure muttering swears under his breath. 

“Probably be all healed in a week or two.” Howard comments, watching him go. 

“That’ll be nice.” Both for Jack and for Vince, he thinks, he might get his friend back then. “You coming to lunch?” 

“Uh, no…” Howard hesitates, an internal struggle waging on in his head no doubt. “Think I’ll stay here and, you know, keep an eye on Jack.” 

Vince resists the urge to say something snarky. A feat for him. He should be rewarded for it. “Oh, alright. Well I’ll see you tonight then?” 

“Yeah, thanks Vince.” 

It's dismissal; he finds himself sulking out of the enclosure with a frown on his face before he says anything he might regret. Picking a fight over this would not be a good look. Vince really doesn’t like to say he’s jealous, but that’s exactly what he is really. Jealous of a bloody fox - it’s pathetic. 

And he isn't sure what bothers him more; Jack or Howard’s _uncharacteristic devotion_ to Jack.

Lost in his petty anger, he walks face first into Fossil. The American grimaces until he realises who it is he’s bumped into. Then his face blooms a sickly sweet smile. “Hi Vince, how are ya?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, barreling on with his train of thought. “You seen Moon anywhere? I gotta send someone up a tree and it's got his name all over it.” 

It just slips from his mouth. He will swear for years to come he hadn’t meant it. 

"Probably still bumming that fox." 

As soon as the words hit the air he knows he has made a terrible mistake. Fossil looks frankly delighted at this information, rushes off without so much as a goodbye in order to wreak havoc with his new knowledge. 

It takes shockingly little time for it to spread like wildfire; perhaps gets a little out of control. 

By that evening half the staff are talking about it. Vince can’t go ten minutes without hearing someone snickering over _‘The Fox Bummer’_. Even the animals are getting involved; feeding the Meerkats finds him witnessing how they roll about laughing (except one - Helena, she’s always had a bit of a thing for the mustached keeper - she rather likes her chances now). He knows he’s made a mistake but it’s a bit late to take it back really. 

Howard storms into the keepers hut with a face like thunder that evening. 

"You alright?" He hedges his bets that the other man doesn’t know _who_ started the whole thing, proven correct when all Howard does is sigh heavily and throw himself down onto their sofa with a pout. 

"Jack's fallen out with me." 

Vince fights very hard not to show how overjoyed he is about this information. "Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah." Vince joins him on the sofa, body turned and open. "Some rumour or something, it's got his back up." 

"Oh that's a shame."

It might not have been the proudest moment of Vince's life. In the end, though, he doesn’t really care if it means Howard’s attention is back on him. 

"Cup of tea?" 

Howard sighs. "Go on then."

_27\. Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?  
_ _Feelin' all alone without a friend. you know you feel like dyin'._

He’s a few days away from 20 when Bollo has his health scare. 

Howard is sometimes right, in that getting close to the animals hurts. It hurts a lot. Mr Bollo was probably the first animal he’d bonded with at the zoo; he’d go as far as to call him one of his closest friends full stop. Seeing him so lifeless, breathing shallow, unable to even sit up he was so weak. This was what heartbreak felt like. 

Howard helps move him into the keepers hut, out of the way of Fossil’s plan (a plan Vince didn't even listen to Howard explain, distracted as he was) - but also because Vince begs him to. Reasons that if the Gorilla is going to die today then he should go somewhere warm and comfortable and surrounded by love. He gazes at Vince with soft sympathetic eyes and then says he’ll be back in an hour to check on them. 

Honestly, Vince is so distraught about Bollo that he doesn't give Howard a second thought for most of the day. When two hours pass he still doesn’t pay him any mind because by some miracle the Ape recovers. Shoots up in his bed and declares he feels like he has been born again.

It’s awful, but Howard had been the last thing on his mind at that moment. 

It isn't until he's engaged in a round of joyful singing with his monkey friend, pressed a banana and some tea into his paws to keep his strength up, that he thinks he should perhaps inform him about the development. If nothing else he was going to need help getting him back into his enclosure.

Naturally he checks the Aviary first, but there's no sign of him. Following that he checks the Aquarium on the off chance he was feeling charitable and covering some of Vince’s responsibilities; then the reptile house (stalking Gideon some more was always a possibility). He has no luck in any of those areas. 

And he's getting a feeling low in the pit of his stomach, a sickly dark thing burrowing into his subconscious and whispering terrible things. _Something’s wrong_ , it says, _something is really_ really _wrong._

Eventually he heads to the Primate section, just in case Howard was there. 

He swings the door to Bollo’s enclosure open slowly, afraid of what he might find. And there he is, sitting down and leaning against the wall like he's having a little sleepy. 

Vince's first reaction is relief. "There you are, Howard!" He calls. “The best thing happened, Bollo he's-" 

It registers just a second too late that Howard's not sitting at all, but slumped. Limp against the wall like a marionette with its strings cut - and he's definitely not just having a sleep. He's still, unnaturally still. His limbs sprawl in all directions. Head lolling downwards at an uncomfortable angle. 

Vince doesn't think he's breathing. 

"Howard?"

Gently he nudges at him with the toe of his boot, a laugh puffing past his lips, half expecting that he will spring up and give him a fright. He's probably just having him on, that's what this is. Howard’s always winding him up. 

"Get up, you berk." He tries again. 

But he still doesn't move. Vince looks around, over one shoulder and then over his other. “Howard?" He feels seven years old again, terrified on a new school playground. Alone. Waiting for Howard to tell him it's all going to be okay. 

It doesn’t even occur to him to check for a pulse. He's never had to do anything like this before. What’s the proper procedure when you find your someone dead in a Gorilla suit? In panic he just sort of stands there, staring at the lifeless lump that used to be his best friend. 

"Are you really gone?" Talking to the air isn't helping anybody except him. "Properly gone?" 

Reality hits him all at once. A sudden and jarring slap that nearly sends him sprawling. A gasp chokes from his throat. Feet sent him stumbling backwards until his back hit the bars of the enclosure roughly. He doesn’t feel it. As fast as he can he scrambles out of the cage and into the hallway. There he pauses, hands on his knees and his head dipped low. Any minute his breakfast is going to make a reappearance. 

“What you doing?” 

Naboo. He may just be the only person Vince would want to see at this point. Vince looks up, desperate, he reaches for the little man’s robe and tugs him. "Come with me." He orders. 

The shaman doesn't argue, follows dutifully. 

He leads the way into the room - just as hesitant now he knows what is waiting for him on the other side - and swiftly tucks himself into the farthest corner from Howard's still form. Naboo shuffles over the threshold and hovers there looking down at Howard. 

He looks to Vince once, then back at Howard, and then nods his head. "Yeah, he's dead."

"What?" Vince slumps a little against the wall. He isn't sure how his legs are keeping him up. "Dead?" 

"Yeah. Dead."

His breath is coming a bit too fast, his head spins. "You sure?" He doesn't even wait for an answer. "Why's he wearing a monkey suit for?" 

Naboo just shrugs. "Drink this." He holds out a glittering bubbling concoction that he produced from somewhere in his robes. 

"God what am I gonna do?" He grabs the drink without asking what it is and downs it in one go. It was quite sweet. "How do you even die in a monkey suit? You sure he's dead?" 

"I'm sure." Naboo is watching him carefully. 

He can’t calm himself down, but it doesn't seem to matter cause everything feels a bit floaty. He slides down the wall and sits on the floor, head feeling swimmy and eyes closing. "What am I gonna do?" 

Everything goes black. 

_28\. I could blame somebody else for my heart  
_ _For the part that's broken_

He wakes up on a sofa. 

There's a gentle shuffling that indicates someone else is in the room with him - a sound he has come to associate with Howard making their first tea of the morning while Vince pulls himself out of his sleeping bag nest. The thought makes him grin, limbs stretching out and his joints popping. He must have slept in a bit, normally the other keeper would have shaken him awake by now. 

Prying his eyes open, though, does not find him in the keepers hut, but rather, in Naboo’s kiosk. 

Everything comes screaming back to him. Howard in the enclosure. Howard dead. Howard was _dead._

Limbs move on autopilot and force him to scramble to his feet. He’s about to go running outside but he collides bodily with Naboo spilling hot tea down both of their fronts. 

“Oh for- these are a nightmare to dry clean, you know.” The shaman lisps at him angrily. Vince couldn’t care less at the moment, tries to step around him but finds the shorter man moving directly into his path. 

“I need to see Howard,” He snaps, irritable. Naboo only sets the spilled mugs aside and reaches up to plant a firm hand on his chest; shoves him back a few steps. For such a little man he is deceptively strong. Vince’s mouth keeps moving. "Howard, I _need_ to go and see him! He was in Bollo's place, in a monkey suit and he wasn't moving and -" His hands are in his hair, tugging at the loose strands like it might force all his thoughts into an order that's understandable. But no matter what direction he looks at this from it makes no sense. 

The world will never make sense without Howard in it. 

He’s shoved back onto the sofa gracelessly, Naboo’s hand then pressing his head down until it hangs between his knees. “Breathe, you idiot, or you’ll pass out.” 

Only now does he realise he has no control over his own lungs; burning as they are with lack of proper oxygen. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to work overtime. Like even his organs were calling out, trying to do something, _anything,_ about this situation and instead sending him spiraling. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose and then releases it slowly through his mouth. Tears hit the carpet by his feet and wonders if they’re coming from him. He’s too numb to know the answer. 

“Better,” The shaman praises, though to be honest, there’s no change in his tone at all. So Vince is only really _interpreting_ the praise. “You can sit up now.” 

"How did this happen?" Is the first thing he rasps, throat tight. Not sure he even wants to know the answer. 

"Nobody knows." Naboo says honestly. At least Vince can count on him to not bullshit him right now. He doesn’t want sympathy he wants to understand. The shaman squints at him. "How you feelin', that was a strong sedative I gave you."

"Uh, alright, I think." He doesn't deign to ask why Naboo felt the need to sedate him in the first place. "Sort of. Head hurts."

"That's normal."

As his breathing settles, the rest of his body starts to return to feeling. His fingers still tingle with the after effects of what he assumes was a panic attack. His ears are ringing. But as the numbness wears off the worst feeling by far is the hollow feel to his chest. His heart. As dramatic as it sounds (and he wasn’t normally one for such poetic notions) it feels like there's a chunk of his person missing that used to be there. A gaping hole in his soul that’s left his skin not fitting on his bones right. He's the wrong shape for the universe now. Torn in half and left floating. 

"What am I gonna do, Naboo?" 

Naboo, calm as ever, just shrugs at him. "Don't people normally have funerals?" 

Fucking hell. He’s going to have to arrange a funeral, he realises. This time when he tips his head down between his knees it’s a preventative measure. Almost certain that attack was not going to be a one off experience. 

Where do you even start arranging a funeral? He can’t just call the rest of the Moon clan, Howard had never gotten along with his family. It was one of the reasons why they had both upped sticks and left as soon as physically possible. He wouldn't even know _how_ to get in touch with them even if he had wanted to, Howard had done a pretty bang up job of severing all contact. 

Maybe he could invite the other keepers, but really, would any of them even go? Those who bothered to remember Howard's name still didn't like him. Knowing them they might even be glad to see the back of him. 

He could call Leroy, ask him to come round. Besides that there is only Naboo and Bollo. 

"I'll help you sort it." Naboo says, and there's a slight inflection in his voice that Vince thinks may be sympathy. 

All he can do is nod his head dumbly.

_29\. I wonder, how am I supposed to feel when you're not here.  
_ _Cause I burned every bridge I ever built when you were here._

Forty eight hours later and they bury Howard. 

The funeral is a complete car crash. Leroy never did answer the call to come, and like predicted, no one else bothers. Himself, Naboo, Bollo, and the idiot that is Bob Fossil manage to cobble together something that resembles respect in order to pay it to Howard. 

Though it does involve the man being buried in the middle of the Zoo. 

After, Fossil somehow expects him to carry on as normal and instructs him that the Lemurs need haircuts. Rather than do that, though, Vince heads back to the keepers hut for the first time in two days. He’d been kipping on Naboo’s sofa, unable to face going back to the hut alone. But even if the Shaman was too polite (high) to say it himself, Vince could tell he was starting to get in the way a bit. 

No one ever noticed when they took their time doing jobs before Howard had died, he reasoned they certainly wouldn’t notice now. 

For a long time he stands in the centre of the room. Surveying it all; contemplating what he’s supposed to do now. In the immediate, he really should do something with all this stuff. Howard’s things littered about the place like he’s about to come through the door and put it all to use; rinse that mug he’s always drinking from or take out his trumpet just to hold it, never to actually play it. 

They’d been talking about looking for a flat together very soon, now that they were both getting a bit older. The pair of them had frequently bickered over what they’d take and what they’d leave behind. Now he was glaring at it all. There was _so much._

And that was just the short term of his problems. 

In the long term; Vince came to this zoo with Howard. Always known it would be a stop-gap but he had imagined that when he left, he would leave with Howard. 

What was he supposed to do now? Even turning twenty soon, he didn’t feel at all grown up enough to stand on his own two feet. It was never his job to do so. At best, his job was to just be, and Howard was the one to handle anything remotely responsible. 

He felt sick at the thought of facing his birthday and not having Howard there with him. 

He looks around the hut, their temporary home. A bit small, on the drafty side, honestly stinks of animals all of the time - but it was _theirs._

Suddenly it’s a bit too much. 

Vince likes to pretend he’s empty inside; that he’s made of candy floss and glitter without any emotion except for his default of childish glee. But most people know this just isn’t true. Vince knows this isn’t true, the past few years had been a testament to that fact. He was emotional in his own right, even if he sometimes expressed it in the strangest of ways. 

Fingers dance over the rim of Howard’s favourite blue mug with dregs of tea still left in it, remembers making it that morning. Felt like a lifetime ago now. How they’d abandoned it to rush to Bollo’s side. He grabs the cup and propels it into the sink with enough force the ceramic cracks; enjoys the momentary relief the action brought him. 

Enjoys it enough that he does it again, this time shattering it completely. 

He starts to deal with every possession in a similar way. All of Howard’s disgustingly khaki shirts are tugged free of the wardrobe and thrown about the room. His sleeping bag is met with the toe of his boot, kicked across the floor. Books are thrown. His fancy fountain pens are tossed. His trumpet case booted. Even the typewriter doesn’t escape; the half finished pages of cream poetry are torn free and crumpled between fists. 

Later he’ll regret it. Later, when the anger of it all is replaced with sadness, he’ll pick it all up and regret it. 

But in the moment it was rather therapeutic. 

The next logical target would be the poor excuse for music that is Howard’s record collection. But that seems to be too far for even his tattered state of mind. Staring down at them, he can’t bring himself to do a single thing with them. If anything in this god forsaken place represented the essence of his friend - it was his music. Howard had always rabbited on at him, insisting he listen to some. 

_“You could learn what real music is, little man.”_ He’d say. 

Breaking them seems a bit disrespectful; he can’t do it. 

Instead, he snatches the whole lot up, the record player too, and heads for Bollo’s enclosure. 

_30\. The wonderful part of the mess that we made  
_ _We pick ourselves undone_

“What happened to my cup?” 

Vince looks up from his Pot Noodle, guilty eyes darting from the sink, where the shattered remains of Howard’s favourite cup lay, to the man’s confused face. 

“Oh, I uh- I dropped it.” He lies, turns his gaze back to his food. 

Howard frowns deeply at him. Vince knows he saw the state of the hut once they got back from Monkey Hell. The clothes everywhere, the upturned trumpet case, crumpled paper strewn across the surfaces. It was a hard thing to miss, but he’d been quickly herded into the bathroom by the younger keeper _“You’ll probably want a shower, yeah? Bit gross that monkey suit.”_

Now it looked like nothing had ever happened. Shirts hastily rehung and books re-shelved; everything was put back to where it belonged. There had even been a rather rushed attempt to try and smooth out the sheets upon sheets of poetry he’d had a go at. 

He’d forgotten about the mug shards though. 

Howard scrutinizes him for a moment. “You dropped it?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look up from stirring his food. “Got the grip of a small child made from butter, I have.” 

Vince holds his breath as tiny eyes dart around the freshly cleaned room. Howard is weighing up whether or not to mention what he saw, and the implications of it; all Vince can do is wait in silence for his verdict. 

Thankfully, he chooses the skating over it option. “I liked that mug.”

“Probably liked you too,” Vince smirks. “I’ll get you another one.” 

“What if you drop that one as well?” 

Vince narrows his eyes at him, tries to suppress his grin. “Shut your face, I just saved your life.”

“And cost me 110 euros in the process.” Settling for one of their other cups (they did own a lot of cups) Howard sets about making tea. 

“You need to sort your priorities out.” 

“As opposed to yours?” He cuts back, falling into their natural conversation easily. “You once fell in a hole chasing a scarf in the wind.” 

And while Howard’s back is turned, Vince watches him intently. In a way, he can’t believe that Howard is really back. Nothing feels different. It’s almost as if the past few days hadn’t happened.

“Shove off, that was a brilliant scarf.” He remembers that day, Howard had to hoist him out of the hole. “I’ve still got that scarf.” 

“I know, you don’t throw _any_ clothes away.” The other man joins him at the table, grabbing the stack of wrinkled papers that used to be a collection of his writing, and starts sorting through it. 

Vince keeps eating, watching his friend frown down at the pages. He still doesn’t comment, just makes extra effort to flatten them out. A comfortable silence settles over them both. 

Comfortable probably isn’t the right word. 

“Is that it, then?” 

Howard stops sorting, furrows his brows at him. “What’s what?” 

Vince shrugs, stares down into the dregs of his food rather than attempt eye contact. “This. You’re back from the dead, carry on as normal.” 

There’s a few questions in there that he didn’t quite have the courage to actually ask. _Are you really back for good? You’re not going to leave me again are you? Are we okay? Are_ you _okay?_ But unsurprisingly, Howard seems to know exactly what he means. 

“Yeah, little man. That’s it.” 

Oddly, Howard doesn’t seem in the least bit convinced by his own words. There’s a sadness to his gaze that Vince wants to drag out and deal with - but he supposes that his friend will likely be seeing the same look in his own face. 

The two men just continued to look at one another from across the table, both willing the other to say something first. But what could either of them really say. There was too much and not enough words to express it all. The whole thing is a complicated mess of emotions that frankly, even Vince - the one feeling them - didn’t trust his own ability to verbalise it correctly. 

So that word is final. That’s it. The nail in the coffin of the whole thing. Howard is back, and now everything is normal. Balance is restored to their precarious universe. Vince can be happy with that; he _is_ happy with it. 

Regardless of how his insides still twist with grief every time he looks at his friend, never mind the fact Howard is still staring at him with questions in his eyes he will never ask, it would all be fine. 

Sometimes the best thing to do is _not_ talk about it, Vince thinks. No matter what anyone says. 

_31\. I've never so adored you  
_ _I'm twisting allegories now_  
 _I want to complicate you  
_ _Don't let me do this to myself_

Naboo corners him only days after. 

"It's bad again." He says, no explanation besides that. "What happened?" 

Vince is about to demand what he could possibly be on about, but the tiny shaman gives himself away with how he scrutinises the air surrounding him. He rolls his eyes and waves his hand about as if dispelling a bad smell. "Stop creeping on my aura."

"It's creeping on _me_. Like a neon sign." To his credit, Naboo does look rather put out by the whole thing. "Giving me a migraine, it is."

Vince doesn't say anything, just glares down at his friend. 

"You were getting better," Naboo continues, undeterred by Vince’s attempts at being defiant. "But it's starting to look like a smudge again." 

"Well I don't know why it's doing that!" He exclaims. Though, he has a pretty good feeling exactly what might be doing it. The chances of him owning up to it are slim, though. 

Ever since Howard's venture into death, Vince hadn't been coping very well. 

Howard enters a room and Vince finds himself inexplicably startling; once actually jumping a foot in the air like he'd seen a ghost. Their conversations are suffering, too. Mostly clipped and awkward, Vince second guessing every little thing he says enough to ruin the quick banter. They can't seem to keep conversation going without one of them dropping off into silence. 

Vince likes to pretend it isn’t him, but he knows it is. They both know it is. Howard's just too nice to confront him about it. 

He wonders if it's even bothering Howard as much, or if he's simply accepted it. "What's Howard's aura like?" He finds himself asking curiously. 

Rolling his eyes, Naboo sighs, "The same as it always is." 

That fact annoys him inexplicably, until Naboo continues. "Though now you mention it, it's a bit sad." 

"Sad?" 

"Yeah. I mean, it's always a bit sad- it's Howard." They pause a moment to share a knowing look. "But this is _more_ sad."

Vince gnaws on his lip. Thinks back on the past few days and guiltily realises that he has noticed his friend being a bit 'more sad'. Refusing to play music even when Vince offered. He hadn’t written a thing in days. Generally, he was looking blue. He never did a thing about it, though. More worried about how death might have irrevocably changed him. How grief might have changed Vince. 

"But, shouldn't he be happy? Not every day you get brought back to life." He’s used to Naboo looking at him like he’s an idiot, but the sheer force of the look he gets this time is almost like a physical weight on his chest. "What?" 

"If you died, what do you think would happen?" 

"Well, people would be devastated, probably. I'm the next Mick Jagger. I’d be missed by thousands. I've touched lives."

"Right. So, what happened when Howard died?" 

The penny finally drops. 

Not a single person has acknowledged what happened to Howard. No keepers cared. Bob Fossil’s reaction had been ordering them both to get back to work. Which in the grand scheme of things was to be expected - they were all ballbags. 

But _Vince_ hadn’t acknowledged it. He'd been too busy trying to _hide_ his reaction to Howard’s death. Actively trying to cover up the depth of his grief lest it give away just how much Howard _mattered._ He’d inadvertently been ignoring the whole thing. 

_He never even asked him if he was okay_. 

"I've gotta go." He says suddenly. 

Naboo doesn’t bother to say goodbye, and Vince doesn’t wait to hear one. He scurries off in the direction of the last place he saw Howard. 

Predictably, he is emerging from the Owl enclosure when he finds him, eyes downcast. Now that he’s looking for it, he sees just how melancholy the man looks. Without thinking Vince launches himself into his arms. The other keeper has to drop a bag of seed he's holding, but he automatically wraps his hands around the younger man just to stop him knocking them both to the ground. 

Arms wind around his friends shoulders and he clings on for dear life. Howard tenses, inhales as if he's about to tell Vince not to touch him but Vince beats him to it. "I'm glad you're not dead anymore."

The air leaves Howard in a rush. He doesn't say anything, but his hands land on Vince’s waist hesitantly. A moment longer and they give a little squeeze, holding him in place. Vince closes his eyes against the feeling; content. 

He hangs on until it starts to feel a little uncomfortable, and then he carefully pries himself away. 

Howard still hasn't said anything, no doubt the awkward bastard is just taking a moment to really wrap his head around what just happened. Vince waits patiently, he has all the time in the world for this. 

"Thank you, Vince," Is what he says eventually. "I'm glad I'm not dead anymore, too."

"I mean it." He insists, unsure why he feels the need to try so hard to make Howard understand. "I- I really missed you."

That makes Howard flush a gorgeous shade of pink. His eyes are darting everywhere but Vince’s face - but the action doesn’t make him look shifty like usual, rather anxious. Shy. It only serves to make Vince more bold. Determined to make Howard understand that he was _so_ missed. No one deserves to feel expendable but especially not this ridiculous Northern wolf man that has captured his heart and refused to let go. 

"I didn't drop the mug. I smashed it.” He admits in a rush, overcome, it all comes tumbling out. “Trashed most of the hut, to be honest. I was just so angry-" Howard gapes at him but he interrupts that thought before it can form. "Not at _you._ Just angry. Didn't wanna be left behind or something. I _never_ wanna be left behind. But I was, in a way. Didn't really know what to do other than throw a tantrum, you know me. Something doesn't make sense and I just flip out. And it didn’t make sense, you know? The whole world was just strange and wrong without you in it. I had to plan a funeral, Howard. Do you have any idea what it takes for someone like _me_ to plan anything, let alone a funeral? My best mate’s funeral.” He pauses only long enough to suck in a lungful of breath. “So yeah. I was angry. And scared. And so _sad_ that I just - I went a bit doo-lally." He attempts to laugh, casual and airy, but it doesn't sound convincing even to his own ears. 

Howard is still just staring at him in what he thinks is awe, but could really be any number of things. 

"Anyway, I thought I should tell you." He finishes lamely. "Just so you know." 

To his great surprise, it's Howard that moves towards him this time. Big hands grabbing at his shoulders and pulling him to his chest. Arms slide around him and he feels the bony jut of a chin rest on the crown of his head. 

There were depressingly few times in their friendship that Howard had initiated hugs. Usually when Vince was moved to another new Foster family, on one occasion when the younger boy lost a chunk of his hair to the chain of a swing and had to have most of it cut to even it out. Once, when Howard's Nan died, he had turned up at Vince's house and just sank into his arms. 

This one, like all the others, would be a memory Vince cherished. 

When they part this time there is a distinct lack of weight on Vince’s shoulders. He feels more at ease than he had in weeks. 

It's Howard that speaks first. "Come on little man, I'll make us some lunch." 

And Vince grins at him. "Think we should pick up all this seed, first."

Howard playfully cuffs him upside the head.

_32\. You take away the old  
_ _Show me the new  
_ _And I feel like I can fly when I stand next to you_

At twenty, Vince had imagined his life a little different than it was at present. 

Living on the premises of his work place hadn't exactly been the plan. He rather imagined that perhaps by now he’d have been discovered, pulling shapes as the front man of some super cool band. He should have about one hundred groupies following him wherever he goes. He should have a record deal. He should _be someone._

But no. He sleeps on a cold wood floor inside an aged sleeping bag barely two feet from his best friend - whom he is madly in love with - every night. 

Maybe it’s worse for Howard. He’s twenty three and still isn’t any closer to his dreams either. Which is nice in a sad sort of way, at least they’re trapped in this dead end situation together. 

And they are trying. Whenever they’re not wrapped up in some wacky adventure or outrageous zoo business, they do try to house hunt. Or flat hunt, as is perhaps more appropriate. Howard regularly slides adverts from the paper over to him in the hopes it will be the one for them; similarly, Vince keeps his ear to the ground in case any one of his other friends happens to hear about a vacancy. 

There’s a few problems, though, with their situation. 

The first being that they are paid an absolute pittance, Vince would go as far as to say that they were being underpaid for all the rubbish they have to deal with on a day to day basis. But it means there are very few places they would be able to afford to rent on their own. 

Hand in hand with that is their second problem - they just can’t agree where to live. 

Vince has a particular fondness for Camden or Hackney. Even then he’s picky about the places they find, insists they’re all too dull, or that they just don’t _feel_ right. Vince may feel very little but annoyance for the hut but it _has_ been his home for years now and he’s finding it difficult to attach the same kind of affection for anywhere new. Understandable, but not helpful. 

Howard, ever logical, reminds him that there isn’t much chance of them finding somewhere to live that they can comfortably afford in Vince’s preferred areas (no matter how many times Vince told him about cosy flats in Shoreditch, he wouldn’t have it, too close to the centre he says). He would prefer a borough further from the hustle and bustle of the city like Harrow. Somewhere they might be lucky enough to find a little two bed flat for a reasonable price. 

“We’re going to end up crammed in a shoe box above a run down old shop.” Howard sighs heavily one day when Vince says no to yet _another_ property. 

“Howard, that place should ’ave come with its own hazmat suits.” He doesn't even move from where he’s poised at a mirror, combing fingers through his fringe. It just won’t sit right today, like an omen. “Not my fault all the places you find are well dingy.” 

“It’s not _my fault_ our combined wages couldn’t get us a packet of Hula Hoops between us.” He gripes. Vince hears the rustle of pages turning. “Never mind a flat.” 

“Speak for yourself.” He snorts, turns away from his reflection and joins Howard at the table. “I actually gave you money for Hula Hoops and where did it get me?” 

“I haven’t been to the shop yet.” 

“Yeah, well you better go soon or I’m gonna lose it.” Howard’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he smirks. Vince props his hand in his fist and allows himself to appraise him while he is preoccupied with his newspaper. “I’ll waste away before I see them hoops.” 

Brown eyes meet his, swimming with amusement. “I’ll get ‘em. Stop your whining.” 

Vince pokes his tongue out, Howard scrunches his face up in return. He goes back to reading his paper and Vince’s fidgety fingers tap against the chipped surface of their table. Sometimes their lunch hour felt like it dragged on for an age, he was too full of energy today to properly appreciate the time to sit down. 

“It wouldn’t be so bad you know.” He says, the silence smothering him somewhat. Howard doesn’t even glance in his direction this time - probably used to idle chatter from him. He often likes to fill the silence if he can - just hums curiously. “A shoe box above a run down old shop. I reckon we’d be alright.” 

“Yeah?” That statement had caught Howard’s attention. Paper forgotten, he was instead trying to read Vince’s face - darting gaze making him feel watched. 

“Yeah.” In an air of casualness, he shrugs one shoulder. “I quite like the sound of that, actually.” 

Howard scoffs. “You’re joking. Vince, we already live in a shoe box.” 

“Exactly.” In light of his words, Vince averts his gaze. The casual nature seeps away into something more akin to shyness. “Why fix what ain’t broken?” 

No response comes for that. Well there’s a little squeak of a sound that Vince thinks might be surprise, but other than that there is just more silence. When he dares to look back Howard is looking at him with a heady mixture of affection and understanding. 

“Okay.” He says, bobs his head once in agreement. “Right.” 

“Right.” Vince repeats. Childlike glee bubbling from him in a breathy giggle. But he’s straying into dangerous territory; his fingers itching with the need to reach out and grab at his friend. Sink into his side. Ruffle his curls. It’s tough being in love. So he presses to his feet. “I’m losing my mind here, I’m going to see Bollo.” 

The moment shatters, Howard rolls his eyes. “Don’t be giving him anymore fashion advice - a mullet is not, and never will be, a good look for a Gorilla.” 

“As if you’d know,” Vince calls over his shoulder, pulling the door shut behind him with a girlish snicker. 

God he was in trouble. 

_33\. And though admittedly all these moments are just in my head  
_ _I'll be thinking about them as I'm lying in bed_

It’s no secret that Vince likes a lie in if he can get away with having one. So he is rightly _infuriated_ when Howard barges into the keepers hut on one of his rare days off and starts calling for him jovially. 

“Vince, wake up!”

He has half a mind to roll over in his sleeping bag and tell Howard to bugger off until after lunch _at least,_ but there’s precious few things in this world that achieve this level of animation in Howard. Whatever it is must be good. 

That doesn’t mean he has to actually get up, though. “What?” He asks, eyes still closed, face still smushed into his pillow so his voice is muffled. 

“Bainbridge is leaving.” 

_That_ catches his interest. Peeking one eye open, he finds Howard grinning down at him like the cat that got the cream; and he understands why, there isn’t a strong enough word for the things Howard feels about Bainbridge - but hate comes pretty damn close. 

Blearily, he drags a palm over his face as if it would wake him up enough for this conversation. “He’s what?” 

“Leaving.” Eager to tell his tale, Howard pulls a chair up. He sits, elbows on his knees, leaning over to better address his friend. “Graham just told me. He’s buggering off to the Arctic on some adventure.” 

It takes a pathetically long time for all of that information to sink in. “Oh. So he’s not going forever then is he?” 

“Most likely forever.” Howard snorts. “Dangerous place, the Arctic. Polar Bear will be using him as a toothpick within a week.” 

Now awake enough to push himself into a sitting position, Vince raises his eyebrows at Howard. Is having a death fantasy about their boss something that should concern him, almost certainly yes. As he waits for those words to properly sink in he just stares at his friend. 

Howard’s mind catches up with his mouth a second later. “I’m just saying.” 

“Well it’s a bit weird to _just say_ , though, innit?” Vince is snickering though; no matter how Howard’s words are concerning on one level, they were also incredibly amusing on another. “Don’t let anyone else hear you saying bonkers stuff like that.” 

“It’s not bonkers, it’s factual.” And Vince does laugh then, breathy and sleep soft. 

Mostly he understands why Howard holds such disdain for the owner; after all he had been involved in that horrible incident of animal splicing (almost Howard splicing if Vince hadn’t stepped in) and he was solely motivated by potential profit. But all that you could somewhat overlook, a little. Howard’s problem rested in how threatened he felt, because when you boiled it down to basics, Bainbridge was a rather impressive man. 

Vince had a little secret list in a locked drawer inside his brain office - things he’d never admit to Howard. Ever. Some things on that list were obvious (see: I’m infatuated with you). But at the bottom, in scrawled misspelled handwriting, was the fact that Vince quite admired Dixon Bainbridge. 

Okay. He was a ballbag, everyone knew it. Even _he_ knew it. That didn’t stop him being a little bit in awe of how he could just go on adventures. Didn’t stop his insides fluttering whenever he strut into a room and immediately commanded respect. If you put all the animal experimentation and complete disregard for other people aside, Bainbridge was _a man of action_. 

He was the kind of man Vince always imagined himself being attracted to - Charming. Confident. A little rough around the edges. Deep voice. A natural born leader. 

Makes you wonder how he fell for Howard, doesn’t it? Vince asks himself the same question regularly. 

Speaking of Howard. The other keeper was still brimming with static electricity, and Vince knew for sure he wasn’t done telling his tale. He felt guilty enough for not actively hating Bainbridge that the least he could do was listen to him rabbit on for a bit. 

“You making a cuppa then?” It’s not a question, not really. He starts the process of extracting himself from his sleeping bag. One hand gropes the floor around him for the t-shirt he had lost at some point during the night. 

“I’m still on the clock, little man, I can’t be making you tea.” Howard’s eyes glint with mischief as he speaks. “What if there’s some kind of zoological emergency?” 

“As if anyone would call _you_ in an emergency.” 

He gets a playful glare for his troubles, but Howard does get up and move to flick the kettle on. As it boils, he dips and fishes out Vince’s missing shirt (how it wound up under the table he’ll never know) and tosses it at him. It manages to catch him straight in the face. 

Laughing, Vince starts to pull the offending item over his head. “Cheers, Howard.” 

“How you manage to get undressed in your sleep is a mystery to me.” 

Vince, despite it not being a question, answers with a shrug. “Leftover habit from the jungle, I reckon - it gets pretty hot there.” 

“But it doesn’t get hot here.” 

Once again, he shrugs. Now free from his cocoon, he kicks the discarded sleeping bag aside and sets about locating some jeans. In recent years, Vince had become a lot less body shy. Finds himself strolling about in his pants and a shirt, it’s no skin off his back. Howard had of course been affronted at first - “ _Have you no shame?”_ \- but when it became clear Vince was unlikely to change had just accepted the behaviour as normal. 

He’d no sooner started tugging on some dark grey jeans than Howard appeared at his side and held a cup out for him. 

“So when’s he leaving?” He asks by way of thanks. 

“Tomorrow apparently.” 

“That’s soon.” They settle together, shoulder to shoulder on the sofa as they have done many times before. Vince blows on his tea before he takes a sip. “Why _is_ he going?” 

Howard drums his fingers against the ceramic. The noise is rather soothing. “No idea, something about finding riches beyond any man’s imagination.” 

Vince thinks he can detect jealousy in Howard's tone, and he can identify with that. If there was anyone on this earth that needed riches beyond imagining it wasn’t Dixon Bainbridge, it was definitely them. 

“I don’t think he’ll find anything.” The older keeper says decisively. 

“He might, though.” 

The comment, though harmless enough in Vince’s opinion, makes Howard cut a glance at him. “You think he will?” 

“I’m just saying he _might._ ” And he knows as soon as he’s said it that it’s the wrong thing to say. 

They’d had disagreements like this before, when Vince hasn’t quite been completely on board with Howard’s all round hate. It’s all or nothing with Howard; if you don’t agree with him then you’re against him. If you don’t also hate Bainbridge then surely you’re his biggest fan. 

Vince knows it isn’t all as black and white as that - but try telling Howard. 

“People find treasures all the time when they’re not even looking for them,” He continues, hoping to placate his friend. “And he’s actually looking for them.” 

“The man’s an idiot.” His voice goes up by at least an octave and Vince winces into his brew. “He couldn’t find water if he was standing on a boat.” 

“Maybe the boat’s not on water.” 

“Wha- boats go on water, Vince.” 

Smirking at his feet, Vince shrugs. “Not always! Sometimes they’re in, you know, sheds. Boat sheds.” 

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other; Howard looks unsure whether to laugh at him or lecture him. It’s a rather common expression on the other man’s face and yet he’s always strangely proud of himself when he’s able to put it there. 

“Point is if he’s in the right place looking for the right thing - it could happen.” Sometimes there is an anomaly in which Vince sets out to take the piss and actually ends up making (what he thinks) is some pretty good points. “What if this treasure is the water and he’s gotta take his boat to the Arctic to find it.”

As proud as he is of himself for that, his friend doesn’t look even remotely impressed. “Why do you keep defending him?” 

Defending was a strong word but in hindsight, it did sound a little like what he was doing. The second he opened his mouth to argue the point, though, Howard would go on the attack and they’d end up in a vicious cycle of bickering in which neither of them wanted to admit they were in the wrong and yet both of them certainly were. 

Howard shouldn’t hate Bainbridge so much because of his own insecurities and expect everyone to behave the same, but he supposes Vince shouldn’t idolise someone his _best friend_ is intimidated by and talk about it casually. 

The sensible option would be to just make a vague apology and change the topic. 

Vince has never been sensible and he’s not likely to start now. 

“I just don’t want you getting your weird psycho hopes up that he’s gonna disappear forever when he _could_ come back,” Howard’s scowl does nothing to put him off from his argument. “ _And_ he could come back rich.” 

For a moment, Vince awaits some kind of sarcastic retort or another dig at his supposedly secret admiration for the zoo’s owner. 

But the older man just sighs into his tea. “They’re not psycho hopes.” 

“They’re a _bit_ psycho.” He says affectionately. 

Howard makes a show of grumbling, but Vince bumps his elbow against him with as much good nature as he can manage and all seems right with the world once again. Slowly but surely, Vince was learning that Dixon Bainbridge was another touchy subject that he was just going to have to be careful about mentioning. 

There was very little that could cause genuine tension between the pair of them, but anything that could, it was usually an unspoken agreement that they would try their best not to talk about it. 

“Tenner says he loses a toe to frostbite,” Howard says then, and Vince cackles so hard he is sure tea goes up his nose.

“Alright you’re on.” 

_34\. Your rhythm isn't totally in sync with me  
_ _But I wanna be the measure of your symphony  
_ _And I get flustered  
_ _'Cause it isn't always so clear_

Bainbridge is gone a whole month, and the news of his return is not something that Howard welcomes. 

Vince on the other hand, can’t wait. 

Look. He didn’t actually _fancy_ Bainbridge. Really he didn’t. He was just interested in the story that’s all. The adventure. He didn’t claim to be a man of action like Howard did, but he had certainly been on some journeys in his time. That and he'd always been a sucker for a good tale regardless of who was telling it. 

So when Fossil tells them he’s back _and_ is going to gather them all up for an evening story time, Vince is intrigued. 

This is, however, the worst thing to mention to Howard. Especially when they are in the cramped space of a monkey enclosure tasked with cleaning up the frankly ridiculous amounts of waste. How can it go down any way but badly? 

“You actually _want_ to go to his talk?” Howard pauses in his task, frowning at him. 

“Yeah, it’ll be fun.” 

“Fun?” The grimace that makes its way across Howard’s face is all disgust. “You think listening to him brag about his manly prowess is going to be fun?” 

He doesn’t actually bother to respond to that one. He loves Howard, but the man still drives him up the bloody wall with his whining sometimes - supposes that’s what it’s meant to be isn’t it? Adoring every little piece of someone, even the annoying bits. 

“You fancy him.” 

If it were possible, Vince chokes on the air he’s breathing. “What you on about?” 

“Look at you,” Howard jabs an accusing finger at him. “Your cheeks have gone all pink.” 

Vince thinks that has more to do with Howard taking an interest in his love life at all. “I ‘aven’t!” 

“I don’t believe this.” Howard shakes his head at him, folds his arms over his chest like he’s _pouting._ Before Vince can read into that action too much, ask him why he’s so bothered in the first place - it’s not like Howard has a claim on him (except he definitely does) so why should it matter. The other keeper says, “You can do so much better than that utter pissflap.” 

It’s probably incredibly pathetic that a simple sentiment like that can make his knees go weak, but he finds himself using the shovel he’s holding to prop himself upright. “I don’t fancy him!” He snaps, voice rougher than he intends. “He’s a prat. I just want to hear the story, alright?” 

Eyes locked, they appraise each other for a beat. Howard assesses him from head to toe and Vince glares defiantly back at him. Dares him to make that accusation again. He doesn’t. Not in as many words at least. He does utter, “You are _a bit_ soft one him.” 

Vince groans at him, pairs that with a dramatic eye roll for good measure. “Can we not start this again, Howard.” 

Silence stretches on, Vince gets lost in the monotony of gathering dung into an easily disposable pile for later. He can sense Howard hovering behind him; waves of resignation coming off him. 

Vince knows he’ll win this round, they’ll end up going to the talk. 

Howard sighs; redirects the conversation. “I’m sick of this.” 

“What’s wrong with you?” Taking the bait, he turns to face him. 

“I’m a trained zookeeper and I spend my day shoveling dung about.” 

Vince resists the urge to inform him that he’s actually the one shoveling dung about, and instead leads his friend into a familiar joke about the inhabitant of said enclosure. The poor primate insists he has only had one banana, but they both know it’s not true. He’s terrible for nicking the food off visitors, this one. 

It breaks their disagreement though; and like a good friend Vince allows Howard to moan a little more about Bainbridge and his expedition. Also like a good friend, he can’t help but to wind him up a little bit. _“As if that’s a moustache. That’s a cappuccino stain.”_

Eventually his friend tires of it and storms off. Though it’s not a real storm off, Vince has existed in this friendship long enough to know the difference. This particular brand of huff is rooted in the familiar humour of them taking the piss out of one another since they were young. It means Vince has won. 

Too right, too, it’s hardly going to kill them to listen to one little talk is it? 

Though looking back on it, calling Bainbridge a man of action to Howard’s face might not have been his proudest moment. 

_35\. Ebbing  
_ _And flowing  
_ _And pushed by a breeze  
_ _I live to make you free_

The lecture manages to put even more tension between them

Howard is whispering jokes in his ear and expecting Vince to join in, and usually he’d be more than up for that. He’d be at the forefront of mockery with him, armed and ready with a vast range of his own comic stylings. But it isn’t happening tonight, because he’s honestly a little too busy actually paying attention to what Bainbridge has to say. The fact he is actively listening in turn seems to annoy Howard even more. 

Joining in with a spattering of applause over something Bainbridge says makes Howard glare at him; he drops his hands back into his lap. 

It isn’t his fault. It hardly matters that he and Howard have probably been on a damn sight more adventures than Bainbridge could ever dream of, they still rarely ever get to leave the zoo. So what if he wants to live vicariously through someone else’s journey? 

Howard makes another joke, _“What in marriage?”_ and Vince barely stops himself rolling his eyes at him. 

His phone choosing the most inopportune moment to start ringing is just the icing on the cake of the whole evening; Fossil screaming at them is nothing new but the cold stare he’s getting from Bainbridge is a fresh kind of unsettling. Nothing good can possibly come from that stare. 

_“I understand it took Howard Moon one month to grow that moustache.”_

And yeah okay, the look of betrayal on Howard’s face (no matter how minute it may be) was appropriate on this occasion. Vince was most likely the only person who had known that little bit of information, not like Howard would run around telling people. But how was he to know that sharing it with Naboo would mean the whole zoo finding out about it? 

It’s almost exactly why he phones Gary. 

It takes a monumental effort to get Howard to settle down. Dragging him down from his high horse was always a bit of a task, but especially so when he’s curling in on himself to protect an already wounded pride. Keeping everyone at bay with his facade of a temper. 

“Cheers for that, Vince.” He snaps from where he hovers by the door. He won’t even sit down, fizzing with residual annoyance. “Really, just what I needed, to be humiliated in front of the whole staff.” 

Outwardly, Vince appears calm and unaffected by the whole thing. Internally though, he’s turbulent with guilt. “Look, I didn’t know he was gonna find out alright?” He says, peers up at him from under his fringe. “I didn't mean it.” 

When Howard only scoffs at him he employs some dirty tactics. Widens his eyes a little, pulls his lower lip between his teeth. “I am,” Ups his pitch into a barely there whine. “I’m really sorry, ‘oward.” 

It works. Howard’s eyes drop to his feet; shoulders lose all their tension. He’s never been able to resist the puppy dog look - Vince tries to only use it in emergencies though, otherwise it’s just unfair. “Sit down, I’ll make us a cuppa, yeah?” 

Reluctantly, Howard agrees, as he drops to sit Vince rises again and ambles over to the kettle. They get back onto Bainbridge once more, and Vince doesn’t quite mind listening to him go off on one so long as it keeps the attention away from his own misdemeanors. 

“He’s pretty good Bainbridge, in’ he?” He says, and calculated prod at the bear of his friend’s irritation. “He’s a genius.” 

“I can’t believe you got sucked into that.” 

Howard would find the egg, he insists. He would come back from the Arctic a hero. An explorer extraordinaire. Vince believes him on some level, though he can’t help but point out that Howard _still_ hasn’t bothered to get him his Hula Hoops. 

So he does something he never ever thought he’d do for Howard - he calls Gary Numan and uses a favour he’d been saving up for years. All in the name of abating his own guilt over a stupid moustache joke. 

The heart wants what the heart wants. 

_36\. Hey there oblivious!  
_ _Here is your happiness  
_ _If you would only turn around_

Two weeks later and they’ve returned to the zoo. Annoyingly, the egg they brought back is found to be a fake. Even more annoyingly, Bainbridge makes a triumphant return with the _real_ egg just three days after. Vince has some stunning new boots, though, the silver lining in all of this. 

Howard’s off, though. Acting shiftier than usual. Everything he does is subdued, like he’s actively trying to avoid drawing attention to himself wherever possible. His conversation is lacking it’s usual bolster. His eyes have no real warmth to them when he looks at Vince. 

Something is bothering him, that much of certain, but Vince has no idea what it might be. 

“It’s not all bad,” He tries one morning, dutifully chopping bananas for the primates while Howard leans casually against the counter beside him - flipping through their rota for that week. He just stares at him, confused. “Us bringing back the fake egg.” He elaborates. 

Howard’s mouth makes a silent ‘oh’ but then he’s shaking his head. Brushing it off. “Yeah, you’re right.” He says, tone level. 

He can rule out that being the problem then. He attempts a new line of inquiry, determined to get to the bottom of this mood. “What about Bainbridge, though, finding the real one like that?” He has all but given up his fruit preparation - instead watching his friend for tells. Anything that would give a hint as to what he’s thinking. “That’s got to wind you up a bit.” 

“Mm, not really.” The other keeper says. Vince nearly faints. Bainbridge, _not_ irritate Howard. He’s definitely gone wrong somewhere. 

As if sensing he is being stared at, Howard lifts his curly head from his clipboard once more. Frowns over at him. “I’m glad we didn’t find it actually-” Vince squeaks a high pitch ‘ _you wot?’_ but he is undeterred. “Because if you think about it, what he’s actually done is steal an artifact from the native Parka people. Give it time and people will see him as the villain he is.” 

“Right.” Vince breathes, turns back to his Monkey food. 

Not the fake egg bothering him then. 

He has to really think about what else it could possibly be. A good hard think that takes him almost two days, and as a result leaves him with the radical conclusion that maybe Howard was still peeved with him for the whole Polar Bear business. After all, he does remember how bad he’d had it when he thought Howard had died - perhaps his friend was dealing with similar complicated emotions. 

It’s late into the night when that thought occurs to him. Neither of them are asleep despite the fact they probably should be. Howard’s laying on his back with his eyes squeezed shut - like he can force himself into drifting off - one arm tossed over his middle and the other pillowed under his head. Vince, laying beside him, rolls onto his side to get a better look at him in the soft moonlight. “Howard?” He asks gently, wary of disturbing him. 

“Mm?” 

“You remember that Polar Bear in the Arctic?” 

Howard hums a second time. “What about ‘im?” 

“Are you angry at me,” He worries his lower lip between his teeth. Howard cracks an eye open and turns to look at him, brow furrowed. “For going off with him, an’ that.” 

Howard spends a moment just observing him. His confusion lines smooth out, replaced instead with soft humour. “No, little man. I’m not angry at you.” He presses his eyes closed again and wriggles in his sleeping bag to get comfy once more. “If anyone was going to have it off with a polar bear, it would be you.” 

Vince giggles his way into sleep that night. 

The following morning finds him still just as confused but less inclined to bother trying to figure it out. He thinks this is perhaps going to be an instance where Howard’s mood is indecipherable to anyone but him, and he’s just going to have to let it pass in it’s own good time. 

It will probably come out eventually anyway; Howard is about as good at hiding things from Vince as he is as riding a Porpoise. Meaning he was terrible at it. He just had to wait it out. 

Luckily Vince is more than used to doing the talking for them, it’s a talent he’s known for. Filling empty air with endless wonderings and random stories. Thus it isn’t completely unbearable when Howard spends another day in his funk, but it was definitely trying. 

Setting off on their night duties only seem to make it that much worse. A lot of the animals now being sent to bed for the night, made the air around them quieter and quieter. 

Even Vince runs out of things to say. 

They’re at their last stop when it comes out. The Snow Land, Vince volunteers to deal with their Polar Bear given that he has such a good track record with them, and he sends Howard off in the direction of the Penguins. 

“It’s genius isn’t it?” He calls jovially; the noncommittal grunt he gets in response grates on him. “Like being back in the Arctic.” Nothing. 

Arse. 

There’s no need to disguise his huff as he turns away - the more Howard realises he is pissing him off the better actually - it might make him fix himself quicker. He even adds a little stomp to his step as he struts off to find his job. 

One of the main differences between animals bred in captivity and wild ones was their attitudes. Philomena, their Polar Bear, was a right brat when she wanted to be. It takes him almost ten minutes of pandering to her whims before she agrees to be put into her night room. And even then she takes her time about it. 

It’s really not helping his rapidly souring mood. 

When he returns to his friend’s side he is still busy herding Penguins. “Hey Howard,” He calls, and it’s at this point that Vince makes perhaps the stupidest joke he has ever bothered to utter. “You’re not gonna tell me you love me again, are you?” 

Howard isn’t nearly as amused as Vince is. He’s in a completely different country to amused. His lip twitches in a snarl; the closest thing to genuine anger he’s seen from the other man in a long time. He almost visibly recoils from it. He’s worried he’s going to be hit, with the way his fingers twitch around his torch. It’s not even that he says anything in reply, either. In some ways it might have been better if he had. If he’d yelled at him and called him a tosspot or some other creative expletive. When Howard's being loud you know he's not really that upset. This though, this darkening look. It's dangerous. Frightening. 

He slams the door to the penguin house and strides for the exit. Grimace still pinching his features and his shoulders set in a tense line.

Vince is left behind, unwilling to follow for fear of what would happen when he does. Probably best to let the other man cool down for a moment or two before he reinserts himself into that situation.

Plus he still has to lock up. Howard was angry enough to forget to do part of his duties (which is bad). 

Clicking the padlock into place he can hear the chattering of the birds inside. _Did he really just make that joke?_ And _Oh what a silly boy._ It’s not often Vince get’s a good name calling from the animals, that kind of behaviour was reserved for Howard. It’s perhaps the second biggest indicator that he has royally fucked up. 

He’s always known he isn’t that bright but this might just cement his place as the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. 

Fifteen minutes - how long he spends idling about the Zoo with no real aim other than to give Howard some space. But he fears if he puts it off any longer he’ll lose all courage and not address the problem at all. When he finally pushes his way into the hut he finds Howard in the process of getting ready for bed.

Optimistic of him, when he’s this fired up with emotion he’d be lucky to get any sleep at all. 

“Howard?” The other man doesn’t answer him, just carries on searching for his pyjamas. “Howard?” 

Still silence. That’s fine. Silence is Vince’s forte, he knows how to deal with that. It takes no thought at all for him to start filling the air with a stream of utter rubbish. “The animals were all well chatty tonight, weren’t they?” He settles in for the long haul. Reclines casually against the door; folds his arms over his chest defiantly. “The penguins especially, even after you stropped off they were going on and on. I think Mr Phillip, the oldest of the penguins, is getting too big for his boots.” 

Still not a peep. It’s okay, Vince can do this all night. He has once, when Howard gave him a similar silent treatment. Vince _hates_ being ignored. He’d take yelling and name calling all day over being ignored. It’s the worst possible way to punish him and Howard _knows it._ But Vince won’t take it lying down either - will drown you in all the pointless information he could think of until he gets a response. 

He sits himself cross legged on the sofa; Howard is meticulously folding his uniform one item at a time as it’s taken off. For someone so uptight he can be remarkably unshy about his body - it’s been a real problem for Vince. Luckily he’s a bit too preoccupied to flush over it right now. “Don’t even get me started on the Polar Bear, well spoiled, isn’t she? I reckon since she was born here she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, y’know. Maybe need to knock her down a peg.” 

There’s a heavy exhale from Howard. Still not much but he’s getting there. “But the bottom line is, they all think you’re being incredibly unfair to me recently - all the animals I mean. _Especially_ that little display out there.” There’s that lip twitch again. _Come on, Howard._ “What if you’d caught a penguin in your little door slam?” Howard flinches. “I think they’d prefer you don't lock up with them again until you’ve cooled your jets a bit. Honestly Howard-” 

“Alright, Vince, you’ve made your point.” 

“Oh you’re talking now?” He sounds annoyed but on the inside he’s doing cartwheels. 

“If it gets you and your guilt trip to shut up for five minutes.”

Vince makes a show of rolling his eyes. “It _wasn’t_ a guilt trip.” 

“Yes it was.” 

They marinate in that silence for just a moment. Howard frowning down at him and Vince frowning right back. 

And then, in the back of his mind, Vince hears the same advice Naboo gave him many many years ago and thinks it might just help. As well as making him sound incredibly wise. “We can’t fix it if you won’t say it out loud.” 

Howard ponders on this long enough to pull his pyjama shirt over his shoulders and start doing up the buttons. “It’s my fault.” He eventually sighs. “I should have known better than to say that to you.” 

Vince bites his lip, recalling the hushed exchange of words in what they had thought would be their final hour. _“I love you, Vince.”_

“Is that what this is about?” Yes, he had laughed, and that probably wasn’t the right response. But he thought they were over that? “Really, Howard?” 

In his defence, he only laughed because he was so _shocked_. It’s been years. Literally years of him convincing himself this was an entirely one sided infatuation and he still hasn’t ever really gotten over Howard. Still gets butterflies when he smiles his puppyish grin. Still follows him around like a baby duck, ever desperate for a little bit of attention. Prays one day it won’t feel like Howard looks right through him when he gazes at him. 

Frankly his heart had skipped a beat when he had heard those words, as cliche as that is. It was a laugh or cry situation - or potentially say something he would regret - and he’d panicked. So he laughed. 

“You _laughed_ , Vince!” Howard doesn’t sound angry anymore, more disappointed. Vince opens his mouth to defend himself but he doesn’t get the chance. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t hold a grudge about it. Not your fault I’ve invested more in this friendship than you have.” 

And that stings on multiple levels. Firstly, if only Howard had the slightest idea how _deeply_ invested Vince was he would feel a right fool for sure. Secondly, _friendship._ That was the kicker. A hefty kick right to his solar plexus when he was already on his knees. The verbal confirmation of exactly why Vince will likely never tell the other man what’s going on in his head. 

They just weren’t compatible in _that way_. 

“I’m well invested,” He whines; despite not being able to say too much, Howard was still his best mate and deserved to know that. “Maybe I just don’t show it like you do.” 

He’d argue he showed it more than Howard _‘don’t touch me’_ Moon ever did. That was for damn sure. 

Howard’s eyes find his feet. “Yeah, I suppose.” 

“You’re my best mate, Howard.” It’s the most sincere he can sound without giving himself away; or at least he hopes it is. “‘Course I love you.” It in fact, now that the words are out there, feels a bit _too_ sincere. He back tracks with with humour as soon as possible. “Come here, I’ll prove it.” 

That, thankfully, makes Howard chuckle. “I’ll pass, thanks.” 

“Don’t you want my love, Howard?” 

“Shut up, you tit.” 

Vince tries and fails to stop himself giggling. Howard is hiding a smirk under his moustache. “Are you gonna get over your funk now?” 

Howard mutters something indistinct about how he certainly wasn’t in a funk, but the good natured tone makes sure Vince knows that he is in fact forgiven.

There’s an idea swirling around in Vince’s head though. An idea that is inherently terrible but he wants to indulge himself just this once. He’s earned it. So he stands, moves to get his own bed clothes. Howard for once is the first to settle into his sleeping bag - though when he opens a book over his own head Vince knows he has no hope of sleeping tonight. The poor bastard. 

Then, once changed and settled in his own sleeping bag, he sits on the floor beside Howard. He lingers for a moment, mentally scrabbling about to gather enough courage to follow through with his intentions. Howard is so busy squinting up at his reading material he doesn’t notice the scrutiny. 

Vince’s chest aches, and he just does it. Leans over to brush his lips against Howard’s cheek (the man _definitely_ flinched but he didn’t care) and announce. “Night Howard, love you.” 

As he rolls over, back to Howard, he thinks he hears the exhale of a tiny laugh. Vince allows himself a smile. 

Sometimes you have to let some of that love spill out, otherwise it _will_ swallow you whole. 

_37\. You possess every trait that I lack  
_ _By coincidence or by design_

Howard gets it into his head that something bad is coming. 

This in itself is nothing new, Howard senses bad juju everywhere he goes, from his world view the very ground he walks on is seeped in it. He’s been that way as long as Vince can remember. This time though, he doesn’t just think it’s going to be something bad he thinks it’s going to be something _big_ and bad. Something life altering. Vince makes the mistake of trying to joke about it ( _"You’re not gonna die again are you? I think your coffin is still in storage.”_ ) and the look he gets warns him he is pushing his luck so he leaves it alone for as long as he can. Howard was more than capable of stewing over this by himself. 

Except all his twitchy paranoia was sending him a bit wrong, and he’s taking Vince down with him in spectacular fashion. 

“It was different when Tommy was around.” Howard barely finishes saying the words (for the sixth time that day) before Vince is rolling his eyes; the act is second nature to him because of how insistent his friend was about bringing up the past these days. Vince felt like he needed a time machine just to hold a conversation. He seemed to be existing mostly in the period before Vince even showed up at the zoo. 

Everything Howard said was Tommy. Tommy this and Tommy that. Vince loved his hair but he was about ready to tear it out in frustration if he couldn’t get the other man to snap out of it and soon. 

Naturally, his way of attempting to make this happen was to wind Howard up at every turn. 

Another wistful sigh comes from his right and Vince's hands twitch with the urge to toss the clump of hay he’s carrying into Howard’s thoughtful face. “Tommy had a way with the animals, you now.” 

“Yeah, and?” He doesn’t even dignify the conversation with his whole attention; stuffing straw into feeding bags for the hoofed mammals was more interesting anyway. “So ‘ave I, but you don’t hear me going on about it.” 

“He was different though.” 

“Was he?” The disinterested tone manifests out of habit. He feels Howard’s eyes on the back of his head; it makes him smirk. _Take that you, berk._

“Yes. Just incredible.” 

“Did you fancy him?” 

He’s the one that ends up with hay tossed at him. “Shut up.”

That’s _all_ their conversation was at the moment. 

It should be mentioned that Vince has never before had a problem with Tommy nor Howard’s memory of him. Not even when it became glaringly obvious that on some level, Howard had completely idolised the man - would even go as far as to say he felt some level of affection for him. More than _‘just friends'_ kind of affection. 

He’d only had Howard’s word to go on about the man, given that he had long since gone missing when Vince entered the scene. As Vince understood it, the whole reason his friend had ended up working here in the first place was because he’d struck up an unusual friendship with the head keeper. 

A fifteen year old Howard, desperate for someone to look up to and the prodigal son of zoo keeping in search of an apprentice. It was a match made in heaven - if not slightly creepy. 

Back then it was probably the closest thing Howard had to a father figure, while the actual Moon father sat passively at home, reading about bookmarks and forgetting he even had a son. Vince had met the family enough times to know it was a source of constant angst in Howard’s young life. 

So really, he had never put a second thought to it. Why would he? From his perspective as best friend, and endlessly enthusiastic twelve year old that he was at the time, Howard had a cool new friend and could probably get them free trips to the zoo. Even as he grew he recognised the relationship for what it was, a mentor and a student. 

This was different though. 

This wasn’t the passing on of Tommy’s knowledge that he had become accustomed to in the time he’d been here. Nor was it as simple as remembering a man Howard once admired. At least both of those processes Vince had become an active participant in. If Howard passed on knowledge it was to Vince; _for_ Vince. Remembering him never hurt anyone either, because that was Howard’s very emotionally stunted way of opening up. Probably. 

These past few days of Howard’s Tommy related ramblings though? That was him just romanticising his old tutor and making Vince feel like a spare (and inconvenient) part in the process. 

Which is a problem, because of the aforementioned method of lashing out; taking every opportunity to take the piss out of his best friend. 

Because what else was he going to do, talk about it? It probably isn’t a good look to be jealous of a dead man. About as good a look as being jealous of a fox, to be honest. 

It wasn't even Tommy himself that he was jealous of. It wasn’t like he could be what Tommy was for Howard, he understood that. He couldn’t be a paternal figure. Nor a mentor, or a guide. He could barely manage some semblance of maturity on a good day. 

But what Vince _was_ jealous of, was a time of life that Howard seemed to miss so much. The time when he’d been younger and, by the sounds of it, _happier._ Before Vince came along, tugging on his khaki sleeves and insisting he be allowed to follow him on his Zoo adventure. 

Did he really miss it as much as it sounded like he did? The good old days when it was just him and Tommy and enough hero worship to potentially spark a young romance. 

Vince was only human. He had insecurities like any other person with the exception being he understood how to bury them under layers of confidence and calculated vanity. That being said, no amount of burying got rid of the worry that maybe the past four years had been less of a joy and more of an annoyance for Howard.

And to top off all of this rather complicated _emotional_ business Vince was going through, he had to deal with the fact that (whether knowingly or not) Howard had managed to perfectly emulate the Moon and Nooka relationship of all those years ago. Hero worship and all. Except now Howard was the one in the position of power. 

Maybe Vince growing up and learning to stand on his own two feet was what caused all this reminiscing. Vince was a keeper in his own right. He hadn’t needed a mentor for years. 

Did Howard miss it like he did? 

It plagues him for days. Vince doesn’t like to think too much, prefers being empty inside, so it’s naturally throwing him off his game that all of this is going on. It’s making his head hurt, to be perfectly honest. 

Don’t even get him started on the fact Howard is always singing a crude rendition of a hymn. _“Tommy, where you go?”_ was equally as haunting as it was embarrassing. 

“Keep on with that nonsense and the Capybaras are gonna riot.” He insists, jabbing his head in the direction of the large rodents who did indeed look unhappy with the racket. 

Howard scowls at him from where he leans casually against the wall watching him buff a window. 

“I’m just sayin’.” 

“Well don’t, alright.” He makes a point of squirting cleaner onto the window and raising his eyebrows in a _get on with it_ motion. 

“Can’t I squirt for a bit?” 

“No.” Clearly Howard’s mood will not be improving any second soon. “You buff, I squirt. That’s the way it works. I’ve been here longer than you. Get on with it.” 

A mistake is made, Vince brings up the bad mood, and Howard is once again set on another despairing rant that he can only scoff at. _Zoo’s falling apart. Never used to be like this._ And he starts singing that goddamn song again, Vince barely contains his laughter. 

“He’s dead.” He interrupts, already at the end of his tether. 

Thus they dissolve into another discussion that honestly Vince isn’t sure is completely banter anymore, there’s underlying genuine annoyance on both sides. It cuts deep when Howard refers to Tommy as a handsome man, and then there’s salt in the wound because _of course_ Tommy hated mods (the exact trend Vince happens to be following at the minute) and it feels a little too much like Howard’s taking a dig at him.

Even after Howard storms off Vince replays the entire discussion in his head and silently stews about it. 

The tannoy is a welcome noise despite the fact it never seems to deliver good news. Nothing can be worse than this dilemma surely. 

_“This is a staff announcement. You’re all fired.”_

Vince drops his head against the glass heavily. He senses that this may just be the start of something… And Howard is _insufferable_ when he’s proven right. 

_38\. It's okay to say you've got a weak spot  
_ _You don't always have to be on top_

“Hey Howard?” 

They’re winding down after a successful adventure, a cup of tea each and _Colobus the Crab_ playing on a low volume in the background. Howard had his head propped in his hand and his eyes drooped so low that Vince was sure he was about to start snoring softly. 

“Howard?” 

The other man startles into awareness. He blinks down at Vince for a moment before asking- “What’s up, little man?” 

It takes a second to talk himself into it, which is stupid probably. Ever since meeting Tommy in the flesh (in the cheese) he's had questions upon questions swirling in his head, filling him up like a water balloon ready to burst and spill everywhere. You'd think that seeing him for the cheddar freak he was would have comforted him, but it was rather the opposite. Meeting Tommy had set Vince down a path of much confusion. 

"Were you in love with Tommy?" He blurts unceremoniously after a moment. 

"Are you takin’ the piss again?" 

And sure, that wasn’t the first time he’d asked that question - except the last time it had been with decidedly more ridicule in his tone. 

This time though, he shrugs. “No. I genuinely wanna know.” Howard quirks a brow at him. “I promise!” 

Still no answer comes, Howard is rather regarding him like one might regard a playground bully. All defiance with a hint of fear - bracing himself for the metaphorical punch. 

So Vince says, “It wouldn’t be wrong, if you did.” Like an utter idiot. 

Howard nearly chokes on his drink. He does actually. Choke on his drink. Vince torn between giving him a few healthy slaps on the back and fully committing to the Heimlich maneuver. Luckily the spluttering comes to an end pretty quickly, fast enough that he doesn't have to brace himself for the _don't touch me_. 

“You what?” He rasps eventually. 

“I’m just sayin’.” And under the scrutiny of Howard’s gaze he finds himself slumping low on the sofa, like he might be swallowed by the cushions and not have to deal with the conversation _he started._ “It’s not wrong. He was a mentor and stuff yeah? It can be easy to get swept up, I guess. If you looked up to him or somethin’.” 

He ends up chewing on his nails to shut himself up. If Howard couldn’t see right through him he must be blind. 

“I did admire him.” Howard admits, his voice is gentle in a way Vince automatically equates with bad news. “Maybe some people would call that a crush - But I was young and stupid, wasn’t I?” 

It’s the fastest Vince has ever gone from hopeful to downright rejected; and the worst thing is he can’t really show it. Howard almost certainly was trying to tell him to back off. Reminding him they just weren’t cut out to be like that. 

He can’t even argue it, just in case that’s not what he was saying at all. Which is possible. Who the hell knows if they’re even having the same conversation at this point? 

It’s such a mess.

So he forces a laugh. “Yeah, you must have been, to fancy him.” 

Howard chuckles at him openly, which is nice. This is the closest thing to a heart to heart they’ve had in ages. Vince takes the opportunity to drain the last of his tea. Wills his eyes to dry out - they’d gone a bit misty there. 

“What was he like?” For a moment, Vince isn’t sure who had asked because it slipped from him unknowingly. But logically, it wasn’t going to be Howard was it? “Before, when you were young. What was he like?” 

“Oh, uh..” Howard, taken off guard by the question, blinks owlishly before puffing out a sigh. “Honestly? Utterly mad.” 

The answer makes him stifle a giggle. “What?” 

“It’s true,” The other keeper’s chuckle mixes with his own, creating a nice harmony of joy. “But it was a brilliant kind of mad.” 

And oddly, Vince knows exactly what he means. He’d thought that about Howard on more than one occasion. “Yeah?” He presses gently, encouraging.

“Always coming out with some of the strangest things, he was. Remember I told you he was a dreamer?” Vince nods. “Well his dreams never ended at the Zoo. It was always _One day there will be a shop as big as a house_ or _What if there was a hair salon in your back pocket._ ”

“That last one does sound pretty genius.” 

Vince snorts as Howard shoots him a withering look. “Thought you’d enjoy that one.” He swills the dregs of his tea around in his cup, weighing up the next thing he says. Vince waits patiently, silently, until Howard feels ready to say it. 

“On my first day he gave me the strangest warning…” He trails off. Voice distant and eyes staring off into nothing as the memory no doubt threatens to overwhelm him. 

Howard doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t tell him what the strange warning was but Vince doesn’t need him to. Not when he’s fairly sure he got the exact same warning himself on _his_ first day. 

_“You have to promise me that you won’t fall in love with me.”_

“Never figured out what he meant by it.” Howard goes on, completely unaware of how Vince’s world is falling apart at the seams. “But he was always saying batty stuff that turned out to be important.” 

Does he even remember saying it to Vince?

He certainly wasn’t acting like he remembered. 

More importantly, did that mean Vince had spent all that time trying to put meaning to something that in the end was just Howard trying his best to emulate a good mentor. Tommy had said it and therefore it must hold meaning. Or did it perhaps mean the words had resonated with him enough to _make_ him repeat them to Vince. Making the sentiment that much weightier in its intentions. 

Either way, it was like being sucked back to his sixteen year old self. Vulnerable and confused. 

“He sounds like a hoot.” He croaks, and the conversation thankfully reaches its natural end. Vince uses this as an excuse to make a move. “Right, I’m off to take a shower. Think I’ve still got bits of Nooka in my hair.” 

Except when he shuts himself in the aged bathroom he doesn’t even turn the water on. Just sinks onto the bathroom floor with his knees to his chest and his forehead dropped forward onto his kneecaps. He takes three deep breaths, and does his best to try and sort through all the information he’s just been given

Fucking Tommy Nooka and his cryptic warnings. 

_39\. Ooh, it gets dark, it gets lonely  
_ _On the other side from you_

The Panda is a little bit of a lapse in his judgement, he’ll admit. 

But to be honest, he’d challenge _any_ twenty one year old that was living in close quarters with the bloke he fancied, to _not_ get a bit desperate for attention every now and then. He hadn’t had any action in ages. Since he’d stopped going clubbing on a regular basis and instead going to the pub with Howard the chance to pull rarely arose. At this point he had to sneak out to meet people, for fear of being judged, and the effort often wasn’t worth it. 

And look, he didn’t _actually_ get off with the Panda, but it was nice to be able to talk to someone that wasn’t Howard and get a few dates out of it at the same time. 

It wasn’t even like he’d planned on going back after that first instance. Chi Chi had always been good conversation, so Howard sending him in to help with the breeding program had seemed simple enough. He could just pop in, have a bit of a natter, Frou Frou would almost certainly get jealous, and he could go about his day. 

But it wasn’t going to happen, as he’d found out once he’d opened his mouth. 

_It’s not happening!_ She screeches, pounding her paws on the straw covered floor. _Not in a million years!_

As it happens, Frou Frou was a bit of a wanker. Always putting his own needs first and ignoring hers, forgetting anniversaries and birthdays, constantly lazing about in his patch of bamboo and never once offering to help her with any enclosure-work. That’s why they’d ended up in separate housing anyway, she’d only gone and moved out. 

_Is it so much to ask to be appreciated? Just some flowers. Or a date every once and a while to remind me I’m still important!_ She had wailed. 

Vince found himself saying, “I’ll take you on a date.” before he’d even thought it through. 

And despite the whole thing being unplanned; it worked out quite well. She aired all her grievances. Vince flirted like a pro; pulling all the tricks he knew made human girls blush. He perhaps got a bit invested, maybe found himself brushing his hand over the black and white fur of her paws and offering her forkfuls of the food they shared. 

It had been ages since Vince had had the chance to woo anyone, he rather overlooked the fact it was a _P_ _anda_ he was wooing. That was until Howard came crashing in and had to forcefully remove him from the table. 

Things get really crazy when he goes back for their second date though. He slips on his panda ears and gets to his _private zoo business_. 

It starts off well, Chi Chi has somehow managed to get her paws on some saucy red lighting. They spend some time catching up on the time between their last meeting and now - it’s not really been that long though. 

Then Vince goes a little bit wrong in the mind tank. “You know Chi Chi, you’re such an amazing panda,”

 _Oh, Vince._ She sighs, and he gets the familiar feeling that he’s about to be let down. The feeling only one other person has ever given him. _You’re a sweet boy, but this isn’t meant to be._

“What do you mean?” He asks, disbelieving despite the fact he knows fine well no one normal has relationships with animals. No one. 

_We’re both destined for other people._ For a Panda, she manages to look at him with so much sympathy that he ducks his head in shame. _Especially you._

“You’ve got it all wrong, I haven’t got anyone.” 

_The animals talk, Vince._ She sounds a bit like she's scolding him; he can imagine her as a great mum. 

"You aren't gonna go back to Frou Frou are you?" That would be a bit of a kick in the teeth - after all the complaining she did. 

_Of course not. I'm not ready to be a mother, I think I'm going to focus on my career of bamboo crafting._

"That's fair." It's still a bit embarrassing that he's being chucked by a Panda Bear, but he'll take it with a stiff upper lip. 

_And I think you should talk to your keeper friend._ Vince doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t know what she means. 

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna work.” He says matter of factly. Thankfully, so used to the reality of that statement that it doesn’t bother him as much as it used to. “We’re a bit incompatible, if you know what I mean.” 

_Are you sure about that?_

“What d’you mean?” 

_Have you ever actually asked?_

Vince scoffs. “I… No. I don’t need to.” 

The panda manages to roll her eyes at him, Vince only finds this a _little_ amusing. _All you humans are the same._

It doesn’t feel like there much left to be said between them, then. He hugs her, gently pets her ears with affection and then makes himself leave. Reluctantly, he heads back to the keepers hut and hopes Howard is done with his tantrum. 

Her words stick with him for days. 

_40\. When you try to speak, but you make no sound  
_ _And the words you want are out of reach but they've never been so loud_

Vince comes to a decision immediately after Howard sits him down to tell him that Mrs Gideon has run off with Chi Chi. 

He’s so nice about it. Even goes as far as planting a comforting hand on his shoulder as he delivers the news - like he’s worried that Vince’s little heart will be broken to hear it. And it is, sort of. It’s incredibly petty but he finds himself resenting the woman that has now managed to take two of his potential lovers' attentions away from him. 

That resentment is quickly drowned out by the realisation that Mrs Gideon has left behind a completely undistracted Howard. At which point he considers sending her a bunch of flowers and his well wishes for their future happiness. 

Chi Chi’s words still swim in his head. _Have you ever actually asked?_ And perhaps she was right. Vince may know Howard better than anyone but he certainly wasn’t a mind reader. At the best of times a lot of what his friend did only confused him; signals getting mixed and ultimately ignored in case they added up to an incorrect conclusion. 

Regardless of what happens, getting some closure might be what Vince needed. Rejection would hurt but it would be worth it if it meant he could finally bury this thing. He was in his twenties now, harbouring these feelings since he was seventeen. It’s about time he grew up a bit. And if that meant talking about it he was going to have to do it soon. 

Now seemed as good a time as any, Howard ripe for the taking so to speak. 

He just has to figure out what to say. How to say it. 

There’s a few false starts along the way.

The first attempt tries to fight its way from him one morning as they’re getting ready for their day. Howard is scatting to himself as he butters his toast, and Vince is using the sound as an aural safety blanket. Cherishing it from where he sits huddled on their sofa drinking his morning brew. Complaining about it doesn't even cross his mind. Just watches his friend go about his business, oblivious to the fact he’s being stared at. 

Morning Howard is one of his favourite variations of Howard he thinks. Just before he gets into the shower and he’s still a little unkempt. Today, the back of his head is flattened with sleep, while the front side has curls sticking out in all directions. They look a little like they're reaching away from his head, trying to grab for something. He’s due a shave, so he’s got a bit of a delicious five o’clock shadow going on. And despite the fact he’s not sleeping properly at the moment - therefore sporting bags under his eyes and a paler tone to his skin than usual - he is still one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. 

And he’s looking right at him. 

“You alright?” 

“Hm?” Vince squeaks, unable to properly form words around the embarrassment of getting caught staring. 

“I said are you alright,” Howard’s previously confused expression morphs into something akin to concern. “You look a bit,” He waves his toast free hand around as if that explains it. 

“Oh, uh, think I’m coming down with something.” He lies. The plan retreating back into the dark corners of his mind like a startled Bunny. There’s no way he can say it now. 

Especially when, without a second thought, Howard struts over and places an open palm on his forehead. “You are a bit warm.” But Vince is fairly certain that has everything to do with all the blood rushing to his face. “Maybe you should stay in the hut for today. Sleep it off.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” 

In the end, it isn’t really the best time to go about having the _‘I’m in love with you and have been for most of my adult life’_ conversation. He decides to push it back a few days. 

The second attempt comes when they have a rare night off from night watch and Vince thinks what he needs is liquid courage. He pleads and whines all day long until finally Howard caves and agrees that they can go for a few drinks at their local - _The Crown and Peacock -_ as long as they are back in bed at a reasonable hour. They did have to work tomorrow, after all. 

Even through his anxiety Vince appreciates how good it feels to be out. He was a social butterfly at heart and the longer he goes in between social activities the more he goes insane. It’s like trapping a rocket on a launch pad with all the engines going; starts tearing itself up. 

He makes a point not to dress up too much, he doesn’t want to visually overwhelm his friend in any way. Sticks with a casual pair of jeans and one of his nicer shirts under his favourite leather jacket. As they walk to the pub they argue over who was going to be the one to tell Mr Fossil about the escaped Slow Loris that was almost certainly now living in his filing cabinet. 

“I’ll get us a drink, go and find a table.” Howard gently orders as they step through the door. It’s a real testament to his acting ability that he suppresses the little shiver that commanding tone always gives him.

He chirps an, “Okay.” And he’s off. 

Another reason he tends not to dress up too much when they come here is the fact that it’s solely populated by grumpy faced men over the age of fifty. The kind of people that don’t take well to an androgynous pixie-man strutting into their good old fashioned pub and sipping on brightly coloured cocktails. This is also why he selects a table in a darkened corner, out of the eye-line of the judgmental folk. All the better to put them in their own little world for the conversation they’re about to have. 

Soon enough Howard is back, setting a sickly sweet alcopop in front of him and nursing his own pint. No doubt whatever lager they have on tap here, something cheap and bloke-ish that helps balance out Howard's sense of manliness whenever he’s seen in public with Vince. 

“I need to talk to you.” Vince blurts before the other man has even made himself comfortable in his seat directly opposite of him. He’s too worried he’s going to back out to wait any longer. 

“Yeah?” Howard asks, squints his eyes at him suspiciously. “What about?”

“Nothing bad.” His fingers tap against the glass bottle of his drink anxiously. “At least, _I_ don’t think it’s bad. You might think so, you’ve got a bit of a dodgy perception on things-”

“Hey,” 

“Well I’m sorry but you do.” They share a smirk. Howard leans forward on the table, elbows resting against the surface. He gives an encouraging nod, face open and responsive. 

Vince starts talking. 

“Do you believe in soulmates, Howard?” He asks, cheesy, he knows, but Howard Moon can be one hopeless romantic and this is likely the best way to appeal to him. He does hum in agreement anyway but Vince is barreling on regardless. “Just ‘cause I think I do. I never used to, thought it was well stupid to expect there to be just _one_ person out there that was perfect for you but then…” He stops, forces himself to take a deep breath before he veers off into a tangent and loses his point. “I reckon there _is_ someone out there that’s perfect for _me_ and I think- I mean, I know - that I’ve met them,” 

He has to take a large mouthful of his drink, if only just to give his hands something to do. Because Howard is just frowning at him like he’s trying to do a complicated equation. Vince’s hands are shaking. He already feels like he’s choking around a rejection that hasn’t happened yet. 

“Is this about a girl?” Howard asks, brow furrowed. 

It’s amusing enough for him to give a weak laugh. “No, well, sort of.” He replies. He’s picking at the chipped paint of the table with trembling digits. “What I’m _trying_ to say is - oh hell - I’m in love, Howard.” 

He thinks for a second that the message has gotten through. That the penny has dropped. Because Howard’s face goes from confused to understanding, but then it goes to pity, and finally lands somewhere in anger and Vince wells up so fast that it should be shameful.

“This is about Chi Chi isn’t it.” Inexplicably, Howard’s tone is hard. Dripping with barely contained fury. “I knew you weren’t okay. There’s only so much a poncho can do.” 

And at this point, he thinks it might be _more_ embarrassing to correct his assumptions than it is for Howard to think he is heartbroken over a panda. 

So he just nods. One tear breaks free and spills down his cheek - the tidal wave of fear having ebbed away and now instead replaced with such abject humiliation that he’s going to have to just let this happen. There’s no stopping it now. Emotional whiplash like that would reduce anyone to tears, he’s just sorry he’s in a pub with Howard when it happened. 

“Oh, Vince.” The anger drops from his tone and forms into a gentle sort of concern. Soft hands lay on top of his own, preventing his nails from digging into the wood anymore. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner.” 

Vince shrugs. Words have abandoned him. They don’t want to associate themselves with this car crash. So he sits silently, letting Howard comfort him. He’s hardly in a position to turn down such freely offered contact. 

Howard offers him a handkerchief, and when he has suitably cleared himself up, actually chucks him under the chin like he is ten years old again. “Don’t worry, little man. It’ll get better, I promise.” A second wave of tears threatens to fall. 

“Can we go home?” He asks once he’s gained enough control over his vocal chords to do so. They’ve not even been here half an hour, but the unfamiliarity of the place is making his skin crawl. All he wants is to be back in the well known air of the keepers hut with a cup of tea, preferably in close vicinity to Howard. 

Thankfully his friend wouldn’t think to refuse him when his cheeks are pink and tear stained. He’s too much of a gentleman for that. 

Vince makes a mental note to himself as they walk back home and Howard (though clearly awkward and stiff in response) let’s him loop his arm through his and tuck his face into his shoulder. 

_Next time; don’t try to be deep and poetic. It confuses everyone involved. Next time just say it._

Four days it takes him to scrape back his dignity. Only then can he start to think about gathering up his courage in order to try again. But isn't three times supposed to be the charm or something?

If anything he is more motivated now. Since during those horrific four days Howard had become the softest version of himself Vince has ever known. 

Well, in his own way, he’s always been like that. He might be big and gangly and a bit of a tit; but Howard has always been a gooey on the inside. That much is evidenced by the way he saves things he thinks Vince won’t notice - like the photograph of them on Vince’s very first day that he keeps tucked in his wallet. Or a horrific origami swan Vince once made to show off to a group of school kids sequestered away in a draw. 

Howard's just usually a distant kind of soft. 

But in the wake of Vince’s perceived heartbreak, Howard goes one up. He wakes Vince with soft uttered words rather than shaking him by the shoulder. Offers him a cup of tea any time he thinks there might be a hint of sadness about his person. Let's him play Gary Numan without a peep of an argument and dutifully doesn't complain when all he eats is sweets. 

And Vince would never want to change Howard (as much as he loathe to admit it, he was just as in love with the prickly and grumpy Howard as he was this gigantic Teddy bear) but it is showing him a rarely glimpsed side to the man that makes him go all wobbly. 

So after four days, Vince gets his act together.

He will not overthink it this time. He isn’t going to worry about superficial things like where he says it. Or irrelevant things like how to say it. He’s just going to do it. Strut up to him and say _“Howard, I’m in love with you, you utter freak,”_ and he’ll take whatever comes after that. 

If he happens to be carrying a bucket of seed (he is) because he’s doing this while they’re at work (yes, they are) then it doesn’t matter. At this point if the words don’t come out then they’re going to suffocate him in his sleep like a Boa Constrictor. 

But it’s just his luck that the Jazz pioneer is busy trancing when Vince finally finds him, which ultimately leads to the aforementioned bucket of seed being tossed in his face rather than the planned confession of love - but what exactly did you expect Vince to do, just stand there and listen to him go on about Jazz? I think not.

Jazz, as it happens, is one hell of a mood killer. Even when they find themselves shoulder to shoulder on a bench the other man just keeps talking about it and it drives him up the wall enough that he _stupidly_ points out the two Electro girls that strut into their line of sight. 

It seemed like a foolproof plan. Girls distract Howard from anything, they’d almost certainly distract him from this social sinkhole of a conversation. Even better, he’ll probably want to talk to them and when they inevitably turn him down Vince will swoop in and tell him how he feels. Like in movies. 

Let it be known that Vince’s plans very rarely go well from him.

Howard does in fact try to talk to the girls, and it goes horribly. It’s frankly a blessing that Fossil calls him away when he does. 

It should also be mentioned that Vince flirts as easily as he breathes, even when he doesn’t particularly mean to. He's laying it on thick with these girls even though the object of his affections has just galloped off like a drunken gazelle to Fossil’s office. 

And alright, the girls _are_ cute, he won’t lie. And they have a Vince shaped opening in their band - _a proper band_ \- so of course he sweet talks his way right into that position, doesn’t he? But it's purely business. A means to an end so he can _finally_ start to make something of himself. 

In his mind it will only delay the process of confessing his love for a little while. Long enough for him to focus on solidifying his place as the front man. Once that’s done he can sit Howard down and finally make him understand. 

As the day goes on, however, it becomes pretty obvious pretty fast that being in this band is winding Howard up in ways he didn’t foresee happening. For reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. They have a falling out that involves Vince using actual swear words (which he usually only does in his head unless he's really annoyed). 

Not only that, even when they make up, it’s all about the girls for Howard. It’s _so_ about the girls that the only way Vince can convince him to help is by dangling the promise of a lady friend in his face. It confirms for Vince, that maybe Howard isn’t one for men after all. Despite admitting to maybe once fancying Tommy, he isn’t giving off much of a gay vibe at all. And if the last few attempts at putting himself out there teach him anything - it’s that perhaps one shouldn’t take romantic advice from a panda. 

He’s willing to do a lot for his best friend, but having his heart broken isn’t one of them. He resolves to say nothing. 

_41\. But I don't have the easy touch, no I'm not strong at all.  
_ _I turned to the worried kind, when I had something._

Howard has been an insomniac since his late teens. 

Once, when Vince had asked why it happened and Howard simply shrugged his shoulders at him, he had joked that he must have too many complex thoughts going on in his head which meant he couldn’t power down. Howard had enthusiastically agreed, given that he thought himself one of the great thinkers of their generation. 

"You should be more like me," He'd announced proudly. "I don't think at all and I fall asleep no problem." 

I was staying asleep that was where the issue lay for Vince. 

Having lived with him this long, he is mostly used to the sleepless nights. Since whenever Howard can’t sleep, he inadvertently keeps Vince awake too. He fidgets you see. Rolls from side to side; or he lays on his back but his fingers tap a broken beat on his stomach. His feet jiggle. Once he started _humming_ and Vince nearly made him sleep outside. It was only fair, though, he supposed, to let him do what he needed to do. Given that on some occasions Vince startles himself awake from frighteningly vivid dreams in a loud and sometimes violent manner. Almost always pulls his friend from his much needed slumber as well. 

The long and short of it is - neither of them sleep a whole lot.

And that is usually fine. But some nights, when Vince is dead on his feet and grumpy, in a foul mood from his own exhaustion much like a toddler would be. Then he gets a bit fed up with the muffled noises coming from Howard’s sleeping bag. 

It’s a night exactly like this that Vince finds himself acting on this frustration. 

“Howard.” He grumbles, half his face smushed into his pillow like it will block out the noise. “I like you an’ everything, but if you keep that up I’m going to kill you.” 

_That_ was in reference to Howard drumming his nails against the wood floor. The rhythmic _click click click_ driving him insane.

“Sorry,” Howard whispers into the dark air. “Thought you’d gone to sleep.” 

“Nope.” Vince finally pries his eyes open - comes face to face with Howard. The man laying on his side facing him. “Thought you were gonna try some of that chamomile stuff Naboo gave you?” 

A look crosses Howard’s face, lips turned down and his eyes squinted up. He looks worried. “I don’t know. His list of potential side effects didn’t exactly make me excited to give it a go.” 

“Well you’re gonna ‘ave to do summit.” He says through a yawn. “I’m not kiddin’. I’ll feed you to the Lion.” 

“I’m open to suggestions.” It’s meant to put him off. He knows that, meant to be a snarky response that gets him to shut up. Instead Vince props himself up on one arm and raises his eyebrows down at his friend. 

“I’ve got one but you ain’t gonna like it.” 

Howard doesn’t respond verbally, just narrows his eyes in challenge. Daring him to bring it on. 

Right. That’s as good as a go ahead. He rolls closer to his friend and throws his arm around him; pulls him tight to his chest. 

“What- Vince!”

“Shut up,” Vince shushes, Howard so startled he just does. It’s a lot like a Possum playing dead, just laying there limp in the hopes whatever is bothering it will go away. Vince isn’t going anywhere though. “When I was younger, in the jungle, all the animals threw me a surprise birthday party-” 

“I’ve heard this before, Vince.” Howard croaks, holding himself unnaturally still as he does. 

“Will you just shush for five minutes and let me work my magic?” 

“I’m not sure I want any of your magic actu-”

“Shh!” Vince gives the body in his arms a warning squeeze and Howard falls silent again. Well, he does for a moment. 

“If I’m not asleep in five minutes, you’ll let me go?” He asks, voice wavering slightly. 

“Promise.” And it seems good enough for Howard. Because he sags again, properly this time. He’s as relaxed as it is possible for him to be when he’s having this much contact. Still tense, but not actively fighting it. “Right. All the animals threw me a surprise party, yeah, and it was genius. Jahooli had spent ages making bunting out of leaves, it wasn’t brilliant on account of the fact he had paws and couldn’t really hold the scissors properly but the thought was nice-” 

As he talks he draws feather light fingertips up and down Howard’s spine. Feels the shiver that ripples through his friend at the touch. He doesn’t protest though, if anything he relaxes into it. Miracles are possible. 

“All the baby elephants had clubbed together to get me a present, I was so excited my tiny little body was practically vibrating. And when I opened it you’ll never guess what was inside?” Howard snuffles a half awake response. Glancing down shows he has let his eyes fall closed. Gradually, he is letting his weight go, his head pillows itself against Vince’s collarbone. He carries on despite the lack of response. “It was a _genius_ hat. I loved it, aw Howard it was perfect. Made of peacock feathers. But the hyena sisters were well jealous. Stole it and ran off into the deepest part of the forest…” 

He’s gone. His breathing has evened out, deep serene breaths that Howard is only capable of when he sleeps. It’s a dirty trick, this, and he really should be ashamed of himself for using Howard’s insomnia as an excuse for a cuddle. But it was a win win. Howard get’s to sleep and Vince? 

Vince gets to tuck his nose into Howard's curls and fall asleep imagining this was his life. 

_42\. They tell you not to plan too far,  
_ _But I'm already miles ahead, and I intend to be wherever you are_

They don’t talk as they start the drive home from the animal prison. The mood in the van is too blue for that. 

Vince doesn’t like to be the sad one, he is after all, the sunshine child, but his head is so clogged thinking over everything that happened he hasn't got much room left for sunshine right now. And he doesn't just mean what happened on this adventure. He means everything. From the second he stepped through those Zoo gates at aged sixteen, right up until this moment. 

“You alright, little man?” Howard is forced to ask eventually. Perhaps he was being a bit too _obviously_ sad. Howard had taken over driving again when it became clear Vince genuinely had no idea what he was doing. Ever since his forehead had remained dropped onto the cool glass, watching the foliage flick by. He hadn’t even asked to put any music on yet. 

He doesn’t even know where to start articulating what’s going on in his head. What comes out is, “I saw Bryan, in the forest.” 

“Really?” Howard’s eyes go comically wide (wide for him) at this information. “That must have been nice, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

And he was right. It should have been nice. In many ways it was; but upon leaving that encounter he'd been wracked with such a feeling of hopelessness. Questioning his dreams, his potential. His relationship with Howard. 

“Yeah.” He forces out eventually. “He was pretty excited to see me, and all my friends are doing well - Colto is working on his third album apparently.” 

Howard senses the tone. “And that’s not a good thing?” 

Another few minutes in this uncomfortable silence; marinating over that question, before Vince announces. “I’m in my twenties and I haven’t got anything to show for it.” 

“Woah,” Howard breathes. His surprise obvious. “This isn’t like you - since when have you been worried about stuff like that. That's more my act, isn't it?” 

“I don’t know,” He clenches his fingers into fists and relaxes them again. With no other way to vent his frustration he brings the digits up to latch on a strand of hair. Twisting and tugging at it. “I feel like I can be so much more than this. Like I’m not reaching my full potential.” 

“Right,” Howard sounds wary as he agrees, darting concerned glances at him. “And what is your potential?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Well that’s helpful for achieving it.” Howard teases lightly. Vince finds it in himself to snicker at him. Then Howard asks, “I thought you loved what we do?” 

“I do!” He insists. “I do, but there’s got to be more.” 

They lapse into silence again, Howard stewing over Vince’s words in contemplative silence. Vince digs out his sweets and nibbles thoughtfully on a liquorice bootlace. 

“Where do you see yourself after the Zoo, Howard?” As the words come out, he turns his face to watch the reactions play over his friend’s face. It starts in unabashed shock, then performs gymnastics right through to resigned sadness. 

“Do you want to leave the Zoo, Vince?” He counters. 

“You can’t answer my question with another question, that’s not how this works!” 

Howard chuckles at him, one of his glances catching how Vince sticks his lip out in a pout. 

“I’m just sayin’. You had dreams too, yeah?” Howard cocks his head to the side. Indicating he is listening to what Vince has to say. “Don’t you want to have a go at them? We’ve given so much of ourselves to this Zoo - there has to be a point where we do our own thing.” 

Then Vince makes the most outlandish suggestion he’s ever voiced. “We should start a band.” 

Howard laughs. Actually belly laughs - if this is what Howard felt like in the Arctic he understands why he got so pissy about it. It doesn't feel great being on this side of the equation. Being the one to put yourself out there and having it laughed at. Howard takes less than a minute to realise Vince isn’t joking and he shuts himself up quick smart. Tries to cover it up with a cough. 

“I don’t think we could be in a band, Vince.” He says, placating like he’s trying to explain to a child why he couldn’t go out and play. “We’d kill each other.” 

“What you on about, of course we could.” Playing into his designated role of child, Vince folds his arms over his chest. 

“What would we play?”

“Anything.” Vince replies unthinkingly. 

“Anything?” Howard frowns over at him incredulously. “Anything but jazz, I suppose.” 

“Well, obviously.” He smirks. Howard snorts at him. 

“Okay, even if we decided a musical genre to conquer, what about the spirit of jazz?” 

“We’ll get Naboo to fix it properly this time.” Vince says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, because to him _it is_. “I’ll even supervise.” 

Howard is running out of arguments against this. He is opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Eventually even that action stops. He clenches his jaw shut, staring resolutely out onto the open road. At least his features don’t scream rejection anymore, in fact, the longer he sits in his silence the closer he gets to considering. 

“Just think about it.” Vince insists, reaches into his bag for whichever mix-tape he closes his hands around first and slips it into the player. “We could do it.” 

Before the best of the 80’s overtakes their speech, Vince thinks he heard Howard mutter “You’ll have to be in charge of costumes.”

_43\. They say boy you gotta go,  
_ _you gotta give it up_

The zoo’s publicity takes a strong downward turn after the bear incident, especially given the fact that there was no real evidence of Ivan being incarcerated - he sort of just took off into the woods after saving them from certain death. 

The topic of a band hasn’t come up again since that day either. But Vince finds himself, more often than not, sketching out ideas for outfits they could wear. Or hastily scribbling down things that in a certain light might just resemble lyrics. 

Vince is twenty three years old and they’re on lunch break when Howard sighs heavily. “The Zoo’s falling apart.” He says. 

This is normally the part in their age old banter that Vince rolls his eyes, chimes in with some inherently cheery rhetoric about how everything will be alright. All he can find in himself though is a matching sigh. “Something will save it,” He aims for reassurance but misses, lands on exhaustion instead. “Something always saves it.” 

Howard shakes his head, leans forward in his seat to catch Vince’s eyes. He looks for all the world like Vince hasn’t understood what he’s trying to say, and maybe he hasn’t. 

“No,” He reiterates. Emphasising the words. “The Zoo is falling apart.” 

Vince doesn’t know what to say. Howard’s eyes dart pointedly to the sketchbook Vince is balancing in his lap then looks back to his face with a small smile. “Costumes?” He asks. 

Slowly, where before there had been a dark smudge of uncertainty. A picture starts to come into focus. “Yeah. Just need a sound now.” 

“You leave that to me, little man.” 

_44\. Cross your heart and hope to die  
_ _Promise me you'll never leave my side_

It’s Howard's twenty sixth birthday when they’re told the zoo is closing. For good this time. Even Dixon Bainbridge has pulled his shares and upped sticks. The animals are all being sent off one by one to different homes; there’s basically no staff left to speak of but the two of them. 

They’re not even technically meant to be at work on that day. But Bob Fossil had been completely unsurprised to find them lounging in the keepers hut when he came to break the news. 

They’re given two hours to pack up what they can carry and get off the premises. 

“What are we gonna do, Howard?” Vince asks, hastily shoving all the clothes he can fit into a duffel bag. 

Howard seems to be of the opinion that clothes don’t matter, he’s finding a way to box up his record player and as many of his records as he can carry at once. “I don’t know, we’ll figure something out.” 

“But what?” 

“I don’t know!” Howard snaps at him, stressed was an understatement. 

Vince winds himself up to snap right back but is interrupted by a little knock at the door; in comical unison they spin to see who is there. Bracing themselves for yet more bad news (it seems likely for them). 

“Alright?” Naboo greets from the doorway. Over his shoulder, Bollo is hovering obediently. “Getting kicked out too, then?” 

“Yeah,” Vince sighs. Cocks his head to the side curiously. “Where _you_ gonna go, Naboo, you must have loads of offers right?” 

“Nah.” The shaman casts his eyes over the mess of their belongings; sorted into rough piles of keep and leave behind. “I’ve got a flat though.” 

Vince practically sees Howard’s ears prick up. If he were a dog his tail would be wagging. “Oh yeah?” He asks, attempts a friendly smile but it comes off more like a grimace. He’s no people skills that one. 

Naboo only frowns over at him, turns instead to address Vince. “Came to see what you were planning on doing, actually.” He smiles something secretive at him, obviously taking great pleasure in how Howard huffs at him. “Only I’ve got a room going.” 

Vince bites at his lip, glances between Howard and Naboo respectively. Surely, after everything they’ve been through, Naboo knows he would never leave Howard behind. He almost certainly does if the way his eyes glint says anything. He thinks he just enjoys winding the taller man up a bit. 

Vince can get on board with that. 

“Ah, cheers Naboo. You’re a diamond.” Howard is glaring at him openly. “Ey, you haven’t got a broom cupboard Howard can live in, ‘ave you?” 

Naboo purses his lips, pretending to think about it. “Nah, don’t think so. I’ve got a mate with a skip though. Will that do.” 

“Probably.” He spins on his heel, claps Howard on the shoulder. “Hear that, Howard. We’re all sorted.” 

“You’re a tit.” Is what Howard responds with - it even makes Naboo smirk. 

“There’s enough room for two beds, if you can put up with one another to share, that is.”

Howard is so relieved he doesn’t flinch away when Vince tosses an arm over his shoulder. “I think we’ll manage.” 

“And don’t think I’m gonna half the rent for you either.” He warns, pointed finger jabbing at them. “Come on, Bollo.” He orders. And then he’s gone. 

The rest of their packing is a little less frantic, now that they have the certainty of a room to go to. Vince has the bright idea to steal one of the Zoo’s old transport Van’s with the promise that he will do it up into a vehicle for their band. They load it up together; boxes and bags full of all their worldly belongings. It looks like shockingly little when it’s all pressed into a small space like that. 

Not that it matters though. Vince is riding on the wave of being able to start a new adventure with Howard at his side to fret too much. 

He hovers by the gate a little longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the hand painted sign that reads ‘ _Closed for Business’._ Everything is so quiet now. There isn’t the sound of Parakeets screeching, of Goats bleating. Or that god awful tannoy squealing humiliating orders at them. Vince may have been eager to move on but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to miss it here. 

For all intents and purposes he grew up in this place. Seven years of his life spent learning how to stand on his own two feet. It taught him so much. Changed him for the better (and some ways for the worse). He fell in love here. 

He hadn’t anticipated it being this hard to say goodbye. 

Howard sidles up to his shoulder, calloused fingers giving his shoulder a companionable squeeze. “Ready, little man?” 

Vince looks up at him, noting that Howard’s eyes are filled with something too. Something akin to sadness. But it’s time to go. He nods his head once. 

“Let’s get out of here.” 

END. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow what an adventure! Six months in the making and now I'm finally putting it out there! Blood, sweat, and tears - mainly tears - went into this. But I'm glad it's done. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did working on it!
> 
> I'm getting in there now to say I am working on a sequel - it will pick up from where we've left off and come with a refreshing change in perspective! So keep an eye out for that if you're interested. 
> 
> All song's used as section headers can be found in the following playlist (in helpful chronologican order!):  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2x6xdkZB5uzBwXgFnDsNhi?si=yHVQR3rYTdCD_C0CJwiaNw
> 
> All that's left to say is thank you for reading!


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